Chapter V: BOSTON, By R.W. Emerson (4)

'However, I believe I did pretty well, though I did make one
or two little mistakes, when most interested; but I was not
so foolish as to try to retrieve them. One occasion more
particularly, when Mr. G----, after going more fully into
his poetical opinions than I could have expected, stated his
sentiments: first, that Wordsworth had, in truth, guided, or,
rather, completely vivified the poetry of this age; secondly,
that 't was his influence which had, in reality, given all his
better individuality to Byron. He recurred again and again
to this opinion, _con amore_, and seemed to wish much for an
answer; but I would not venture, though 'twas hard for me
to forbear, I knew so well what I thought. Mr. G----'s
Wordsworthianism, however, is excellent; his beautiful
simplicity of taste, and love of truth, have preserved him
from any touch of that vague and imbecile enthusiasm, which
has enervated almost all the exclusive and determined admirers
of the great poet whom I have known in these parts. His
reverence, his feeling, are thoroughly intelligent. Everything
in his mind is well defined; and his horror of the vague, and
false, nay, even (suppose another horror here, for grammar's
sake) of the startling and paradoxical, have their beauty.
I think I could know Mr. G---- long, and see him perpetually,
without any touch of satiety; such variety is made by the very
absence of pretension, and the love of truth. I found much
amusement in leading him to sketch the scenes and persons
which Lockhart portrays in such glowing colors, and which he,
too, has seen with the _eye of taste_, but how different!'

* * * * *

Our friend was well aware that her _forte_ was in conversation. Here she felt at home. Here she felt her power, and the excitement which the presence of living persons brought, gave all her faculties full activity 'After all,' she says, in a letter,

'this writing is mighty dead. Oh, for my dear old Greeks, who
talked everything--not to shine as in the Parisian saloons,
but to learn, to teach, to vent the heart, to clear the mind!'

Again, in 1832:--

'Conversation is my natural element. I need to be called
out, and never think alone, without imagining some companion.
Whether this be nature or the force of circumstances, I know
not; it is my habit, and bespeaks a second-rate mind.'

I am disposed to think, much as she excelled in general conversation, that her greatest mental efforts were made in intercourse with individuals. All her friends will unite in the testimony, that whatever they may have known of wit and eloquence in others, they have never seen one who, like her, by the conversation of an hour or two, could not merely entertain and inform, but make an epoch in one's life. We all dated back to this or that conversation with Margaret, in which we took a complete survey of great subjects, came to some clear view of a difficult question, saw our way open before us to a higher plane of life, and were led to some definite resolution or purpose which has had a bearing on all our subsequent career. For Margaret's conversation turned, at such times, to life,--its destiny, its duty, its prospect. With comprehensive glance she would survey the past, and sum up, in a few brief words, its results; she would then turn to the future, and, by a natural order, sweep through its chances and alternatives,--passing ever into a more earnest tone, into a more serious view,--and then bring all to bear on the present, till its duties grew plain, and its opportunities attractive. Happy he who can lift conversation, without loss of its cheer, to the highest uses! Happy he who has such a gift as this, an original faculty thus accomplished by culture, by which he can make our common life rich, significant and fair,--can give to the hour a beauty and brilliancy which shall make it eminent long after, amid dreary years of level routine!

I recall many such conversations. I remember one summer's day, in which we rode together, on horseback, from Cambridge to Newton,--a day all of a piece, in which my eloquent companion helped me to understand my past life, and her own,--a day which left me in that calm repose which comes to us, when we clearly apprehend what we ought to do, and are ready to attempt it. I recall other mornings when, not having seen her for a week or two, I would walk with her for hours, beneath the lindens or in the garden, while we related to each other what we had read in our German studies. And I always left her astonished at the progress of her mind, at the amount of new thoughts she had garnered, and filled with a new sense of the worth of knowledge, and the value of life.

There were other conversations, in which, impelled by the strong instinct of utterance, she would state, in words of tragical pathos, her own needs and longings,--her demands on life,--the struggles of mind, and of heart,--her conflicts with self, with nature, with the limitations of circumstances, with insoluble problems, with an unattainable desire. She seemed to feel relief from the expression of these thoughts, though she gained no light from her companion. Many such conversations I remember, while she lived in Cambridge, and one such in Groton; but afterwards, when I met her, I found her mind risen above these struggles, and in a self-possessed state which needed no such outlet for its ferment.

It is impossible to give any account of _these_ conversations; but I add a few scraps, to indicate, however slightly, something of her ordinary manner.

'Rev. Mr. ---- preached a sermon on TIME. But what business
had he to talk about time? We should like well to hear the
opinions of a great man, who had made good use of time; but
not of a little man, who had not used it to any purpose. I
wished to get up and tell him to speak of something which he
knew and felt.'

* * * * *
'The best criticism on those sermons which proclaim so loudly
the dignity of human nature was from our friend E.S. She said,
coming out from Dr. Channing's church, that she felt fatigued
by the demands the sermon made on her, and would go home
and read what Jesus said,--"_Ye are of more value than many
sparrows." That_ she could bear; it did not seem exaggerated
praise.'

* * * * *

'The Swedenborgians say, "that is _Correspondence_," and the
phrenologists, "that it is _Approbativeness,_" and so think
they know all about it. It would not be so, if we could be
like the birds,--make one method, and then desert it, and make
a new one,--as they build their nests.'

* * * * *

'As regards crime, we cannot understand what we have not
_already_ felt;--thus, all crimes have formed part of our
minds. We do but recognize one part of ourselves in the worst
actions of others. When you take the subject in this light,
do you not incline to consider the capacity for action as
something widely differing from the experience of a feeling?'

* * * * *

'How beautiful the life of Benvenuto Cellini! How his
occupations perpetually impelled to thought,--to gushings of
thought naturally excited!'

* * * * *

'Father lectured me for looking satirical when the man of
Words spake, and so attentive to the man of Truth,--that is,
of God.'

Margaret used often to talk about the books which she and I were reading.

GODWIN. 'I think you will be more and more satisfied with
Godwin. He has fully lived the double existence of man, and he
casts the reflexes on his magic mirror from a height where
no object in life's panorama can cause one throb of delirious
hope or grasping ambition. At any rate, if you study him, you
may know all he has to tell. He is quite free from vanity, and
conceals not miserly any of his treasures from the knowledge
of posterity.

M'LLE. D'ESPINASSE. 'I am swallowing by gasps that _cauldrony_
beverage of selfish passion and morbid taste, the letters
of M'lle D'Espinasse. It is good for me. How odious is the
abandonment of passion, such as this, unshaded by pride or
delicacy, unhallowed by religion,--a selfish craving only;
every source of enjoyment stifled to cherish this burning
thirst. Yet the picture, so minute in its touches, is true as
death. I should not like Delphine now.'

Events in life, apparently trivial, often seemed to her full of mystic significance, and it was her pleasure to turn such to poetry. On one occasion, the sight of a passion-flower, given by one lady to another, and then lost, appeared to her so significant of the character, relation, and destiny of the two, that it drew from her lines of which two or three seem worth preserving, as indicating her feeling of social relations.

'Dear friend, my heart grew pensive when I saw
The flower, for thee so sweetly set apart,
By one whose passionless though tender heart
Is worthy to bestow, as angels are,
By an unheeding hand conveyed away,
To close, in unsoothed night, the promise of its day.

* * * * *

'The mystic flower read in thy soul-filled eye
To its life's question the desired reply,
But came no nearer. On thy gentle breast
It hoped to find the haven of its rest;
But in cold night, hurried afar from thee,
It closed its once half-smiling destiny.

'Yet thus, methinks, it utters as it dies,--
"By the pure truth of those calm, gentle eyes
Which saw my life should find its aim in thine,
I see a clime where no strait laws confine.
In that blest land where _twos_ ne'er know a _three_,
Save as the accord of their fine sympathy,
O, best-loved, I will wait for thee!"'

III.

STUDIES.

"Nur durch das Morgenthor des Schönen
Drangst du in der Erkenntniss Land;
An höhen Glanz sich zu gewöhnen
Uebt sich, am Reize der Verstand.
Was bei dem Saitenklang der Musen
Mit süssem Beben dich, durchdrang,
Erzog die Kraft in deinem Busen,
Die sich dereinst zum Weltgeist schwang."

SCHILLER.

"To work, with heart resigned and spirit strong;
Subdue, with patient toil, life's bitter wrong,
Through Nature's dullest, as her brightest ways,
We will march onward, singing to thy praise."

E.S., _in the Dial_.

"The peculiar nature of the scholar's occupation consists in
this,--that science, and especially that side of it from
which he conceives of the whole, shall continually burst forth
before him in new and fairer forms. Let this fresh spiritual
youth never grow old within him; let no form become fixed
and rigid; let each sunrise bring him new joy and love in his
vocation, and larger views of its significance."

FICHTE.

* * * * *

Of Margaret's studies while at Cambridge, I knew personally only of the German. She already, when I first became acquainted with her, had become familiar with the masterpieces of French, Italian and Spanish literature. But all this amount of reading had not made her "deep-learned in books and shallow in herself;" for she brought to the study of most writers "a spirit and genius equal or superior."--so far, at least, as the analytic understanding was concerned. Every writer whom she studied, as every person whom she knew, she placed in his own class, knew his relation to other writers, to the world, to life, to nature, to herself. Much as they might delight her, they never swept her away. She breasted the current of their genius, as a stately swan moves up a stream, enjoying the rushing water the more because she resists it. In a passionate love-struggle she wrestled thus with the genius of De Staël, of Rousseau, of Alfieri, of Petrarch.

The first and most striking element in the genius of Margaret was the clear, sharp understanding, which keenly distinguished between things different, and kept every thought, opinion, person, character, in its own place, not to be confounded with any other. The god Terminus presided over her intellect. She knew her thoughts as we know each other's faces; and opinions, with most of us so vague, shadowy, and shifting, were in her mind substantial and distinct realities. Some persons see distinctions, others resemblances; but she saw both. No sophist could pass on her a counterfeit piece of intellectual money; but also she recognized the one pure metallic basis in coins of different epochs, and when mixed with a very ruinous alloy. This gave a comprehensive quality to her mind most imposing and convincing, as it enabled her to show the one Truth, or the one Law, manifesting itself in such various phenomena. Add to this her profound faith in truth, which made her a Realist of that order that thoughts to her were things. The world of her thoughts rose around her mind as a panorama,--the sun-in the sky, the flowers distinct in the foreground, the pale mountain sharply, though faintly, cutting the sky with its outline in the distance,--and all in pure light and shade, all in perfect perspective.

Margaret began to study German early in 1832. Both she and I were attracted towards this literature, at the same time, by the wild bugle-call of Thomas Carlyle, in his romantic articles on Richter, Schiller, and Goethe, which appeared in the old Foreign Review, the Edinburgh Review, and afterwards in the Foreign Quarterly.

I believe that in about three months from the time that Margaret commenced German, she was reading with ease the masterpieces of its literature. Within the year, she had read Goethe's Faust, Tasso, Iphigenia, Hermann and Dorothea, Elective Affinities, and Memoirs; Tieck's William Lovel, Prince Zerbino, and other works; Körner, Novalis, and something of Richter; all of Schiller's principal dramas, and his lyric poetry. Almost every evening I saw her, and heard an account of her studies. Her mind opened under this influence, as the apple-blossom at the end of a warm week in May. The thought and the beauty of this rich literature equally filled her mind and fascinated her imagination.

* * * * *

But if she studied books thus earnestly, still more frequently did she turn to the study of men. Authors and their personages were not ideal beings merely, but full of human blood and life. So living men and women were idealized again, and transfigured by her rapid fancy,--every trait intensified, developed, ennobled. Lessing says that "The true portrait painter will paint his subject, flattering him as art ought to flatter,--painting the face not as it actually is, but as creation designed, omitting the imperfections arising from the resistance of the material worked in." Margaret's portrait-painting intellect treated persons in this way. She saw them as God designed them,--omitting the loss from wear and tear, from false position, from friction of untoward circumstances. If we may be permitted to take a somewhat transcendental distinction, she saw them not as they _actually_ were, but as they _really_ were. This accounts for her high estimate of her friends,--too high, too flattering, indeed, but justified to her mind by her knowledge of their interior capabilities.

* * * * *

The following extract illustrates her power, even at the age of nineteen, of comprehending the relations of two things lying far apart from each other, and of rising to a point of view which could overlook both:--

'I have had,--while staying a day or two in Boston,--some of
Shirley's, Ford's, and Hey wood's plays from the Athenæum.
There are some noble strains of proud rage, and intellectual,
but most poetical, all-absorbing, passion. One of the finest
fictions I recollect in those specimens of the Italian
novelists,--which you, I think, read when I did,--noble, where
it illustrated the Italian national spirit, is ruined by the
English novelist, who has transplanted it to an uncongenial
soil; yet he has given it beauties which an Italian eye could
not see, by investing the actors with deep, continuing, truly
English affections.'

* * * * *

The following criticism on some of the dialogues of Plato, (dated June 3d, 1833,) in a letter returning the book, illustrates her downright way of asking world-revered authors to accept the test of plain common sense. As a finished or deliberate opinion, it ought not to be read; for it was not intended as such, but as a first impression hastily sketched. But read it as an illustration of the method in which her mind worked, and you will see that she meets the great Plato modestly, but boldly, on human ground, asking him for satisfactory proof of all that he says, and treating him as a human being, speaking to human beings.

'_June_ 3, 1833.--I part with Plato with regret. I could have
wished to "enchant myself," as Socrates would say, with
him some days longer. Eutyphron is excellent. Tis the best
specimen I have ever seen of that mode of convincing. There is
one passage in which Socrates, as if it were _aside_,--since
the remark is quite away from the consciousness of
Eutyphron,--declares, "qu'il aimerait incomparablement mieux
des principes fixes et inébranlables à l'habilité de Dédale
avec les tresors de Tantale." I delight to hear such things
from those whose lives have given the right to say them. For
'tis not always true what Lessing says, and I, myself, once
thought,--

"F.--Von was fur Tugenden spricht er denn?
MINNA.----Er spricht von keiner; denn ihn fehlt keine."

For the mouth sometimes talketh virtue from the overflowing of
the heart, as well as love, anger, &c.

'"Crito" I have read only once, but like it. I have not got it
in my heart though, so clearly as the others. The "Apology"
I deem only remarkable for the noble tone of sentiment, and
beautiful calmness. I was much affected by Phaedo, but think
the argument weak in many respects. The nature of abstract
ideas is clearly set forth; but there is no justice in
reasoning, from their existence, that our souls have lived
previous to our present state, since it was as easy for the
Deity to create at once the idea of beauty within us, as the
sense which brings to the soul intelligence that it exists in
some outward shape. He does not clearly show his opinion of
what the soul is; whether eternal _as_ the Deity, created
_by_ the Deity, or how. In his answer to Simmias, he takes
advantage of the general meaning of the words harmony,
discord, &c. The soul might be a result, without being a
harmony. But I think too many things to write, and some I have
not had time to examine. Meanwhile I can think over parts, and
say to myself, "beautiful," "noble," and use this as one of my
enchantments.'

* * * * *

'I send two of your German books. It pains me to part with
Ottilia. I wish we could learn books, as we do pieces of
music, and repeat them, in the author's order, when taking a
solitary walk. But, now, if I set out with an Ottilia, this
wicked fairy association conjures up such crowds of less
lovely companions, that I often cease to feel the influence of
the elect one. I don't like Goethe so well as Schiller now.
I mean, I am not so happy in reading him. That perfect wisdom
and _merciless_ nature seems cold, after those seducing
pictures of forms more beautiful than truth. Nathless, I
should like to read the second part of Goethe's Memoirs, if
you do not use it now.'

* * * * *

1832.--I am thinking how I omitted to talk a volume to you
about the "Elective Affinities." Now I shall never say half of
it, for which I, on my own account, am sorry. But two or three
things I would ask:--

'What do you think of Charlotte's proposition, that the
accomplished pedagogue must be tiresome in society?

'Of Ottilia's, that the afflicted, and ill-educated, are
oftentimes singled out by fate to instruct others, and her
beautiful reasons why?

'And what have you thought of the discussion touching graves
and monuments?

'I am now going to dream of your sermon, and of Ottilia's
china-asters. Both shall be driven from my head to-morrow,
for I go to town, allured by despatches from thence, promising
much entertainment. Woe unto them if they disappoint me!

'Consider it, I pray you, as the "nearest duty" to answer my
questions, and not act as you did about the sphinx-song.'

* * * * *

'I have not anybody to speak to, that does not talk
common-place, and I wish to talk about such an uncommon
person,--about Novalis! a wondrous youth, and who has only
written one volume. That is pleasant! I feel as though I could
pursue my natural mode with him, get acquainted, then make my
mind easy in the belief that I know all that is to be known.
And he died at twenty-nine, and, as with Körner, your feelings
may be single; you will never be called upon to share his
experience, and compare his future feelings with his present.
And his life was so full and so still.

Then it is a relief, after feeling the immense superiority of
Goethe. It seems to me as if the mind of Goethe had embraced
the universe. I have felt this lately, in reading his lyric
poems. I am enchanted while I read. He comprehends every
feeling I have ever had so perfectly, expresses it so
beautifully: but when I shut the book, it seems as if I had
lost my personal identity; all my feelings linked with such
an immense variety that belong to beings I had thought so
different. What can I bring? There is no answer in my mind,
except "It is so," or "It will be so," or "No doubt such and
such feel so." Yet, while my judgment becomes daily more
tolerant towards others, the same attracting and repelling
work is going on in my feelings. But I persevere in reading
the great sage, some part of every day, hoping the time will
come, when I shall not feel so overwhelmed, and leave off this
habit of wishing to grasp the whole, and be contented to learn
a little every day, as becomes a pupil.

'But now the one-sidedness, imperfection, and glow, of a mind
like that of Novalis, seem refreshingly human to me. I have
wished fifty times to write some letters giving an account,
first, of his very pretty life, and then of his one volume,
as I re-read it, chapter by chapter. If you will pretend to
be very much interested, perhaps I will get a better pen, and
write them to you.' * *

NEED OF COMMUNION.

'_Aug_. 7, 1832.--I feel quite lost; it is so long since I
have talked myself. To see so many acquaintances, to talk
so many words, and never tell my mind completely on any
subject--to say so many things which do not seem called out,
makes me feel strangely vague and movable.

''Tis true, the time is probably near when I must live alone,
to all intents and purposes,--separate entirely my acting from
my thinking world, take care of my ideas without aid,--except
from the illustrious dead,--answer my own questions, correct
my own feelings, and do all that hard work for myself. How
tiresome 'tis to find out all one's self-delusion! I thought
myself so very independent, because I could conceal some
feelings at will, and did not need the same excitement as
other young characters did. And I am not independent, nor
never shall be, while I can get anybody to minister to me. But
I shall go where there is never a spirit to come, if I call
ever so loudly.

'Perhaps I shall talk to you about Körner, but need not write.
He charms me, and has become a fixed star in the heaven of
my thought; but I understand all that he excites perfectly.
I felt very '_new_ about Novalis,--"the good Novalis," as
you call him after Mr. Carlyle. He is, indeed, _good_, most
enlightened, yet most pure; every link of his experience
framed--no, _beaten_--from the tried gold.

'I have read, thoroughly, only two of his pieces, "Die
Lehrlinge zu Sais," and "Heinrich von Ofterdingen." From the
former I have only brought away piecemeal impressions, but the
plan and treatment of the latter, I believe, I understand. It
describes the development of poetry in a mind; and with this
several other developments are connected. I think I shall tell
you all I know about it, some quiet time after your return,
but if not, will certainly keep a Novalis-journal for you some
favorable season, when I live regularly for a fort night.'

* * * * *

'_June_, 1833.--I return Lessing. I could hardly get through
Miss Sampson. E. Galeotti is good in the same way as
Minna. Well-conceived and sustained characters, interesting
situations, but never that profound knowledge of human nature,
those minute beauties, and delicate vivifying traits, which
lead on so in the writings of some authors, who may be
nameless. I think him easily followed; strong, but not deep.'

* * * * *

'_May_, 1833.--_Groton_.--I think you are wrong in applying
your artistical ideas to occasional poetry. An epic, a drama,
must have a fixed form in the mind of the poet from the first;
and copious draughts of ambrosia quaffed in the heaven of
thought, soft fanning gales and bright light from the outward
world, give muscle and bloom,--that is, give life,--to this
skeleton. But all occasional poems must be moods, and can a
mood have a form fixed and perfect, more than a wave of the
sea?'

* * * * *

'Three or four afternoons I have passed very happily at my
beloved haunt in the wood, reading Goethe's "Second Residence
in Rome." Your pencil-marks show that you have been before me.
I shut the book each time with an earnest desire to live as
he did,--always to have some engrossing object of pursuit.
I sympathize deeply with a mind in that state. While mine is
being used up by ounces, I wish pailfuls might be poured into
it. I am dejected and uneasy when I see no results from my
daily existence, but I am suffocated and lost when I have not
the bright feeling of progression.' * *

* * * * *

'I think I am less happy, in many respects, than you, but
particularly in this. You can speak freely to me of all your
circumstances and feelings, can you not? It is not possible
for me to be so profoundly frank with any earthly friend. Thus
my heart has no proper home; it only can prefer some of its
visiting-places to others; and with deep regret I realize that
I have, at length, entered on the concentrating stage of
life. It was not time. I had been too sadly cramped. I had not
learned enough, and must always remain imperfect. Enough! I am
glad I have been able to say so much.'

* * * * *

'I have read nothing,--to signify,--except Goethe's "Campagne
in Frankreich." Have you looked through it, and do you
remember his intercourse with the Wertherian Plessing? That
tale pained me exceedingly. We cry, "help, help," and there is
no help--in man at least. How often I have thought, if I could
see Goethe, and tell him my state of mind, he would support
and guide me! He would be able to understand; he would show
me how to rule circumstances, instead of being ruled by them;
and, above all, he would not have been so sure that all would
be for the best, without our making an effort to act out the
oracles; he would have wished to see me what Nature intended.
But his conduct to Plessing and Ohlenschlager shows that to
him, also, an appeal would have been vain.'

'Do you really believe there is anything "all-comprehending"
but religion? Are not these distinctions imaginary? Must not
the philosophy of every mind, or set of minds, be a system
suited to guide them, and give a home where they can bring
materials among which to accept, reject, and shape at
pleasure? Novalis calls those, who harbor these ideas,
"unbelievers;" but hard names make no difference. He says with
disdain, "To _such_, philosophy is only a system which will
spare them the trouble of reflecting." Now this is just
my case. I _do_ want a system which shall suffice to my
character, and in whose applications I shall have faith. I
do not wish to _reflect_ always, if reflecting must be always
about one's identity, whether "_ich_" am the true "_ich_" &c.
I wish to arrive at that point where I can trust myself, and
leave off saying, "It seems to me," and boldly feel, It _is_
so TO ME. My character has got its natural regulator, my heart
beats, my lips speak truth, I can walk alone, or offer my arm
to a friend, or if I lean on another, it is not the debility
of sickness, but only wayside weariness. This is the
philosophy _I_ want; this much would satisfy _me_.

'Then Novalis says, "Philosophy is the art of discovering the
place of truth in every encountered event and circumstance, to
attune all relations to truth."

'Philosophy is peculiarly home-sickness; an over-mastering
desire to be at home.

'I think so; but what is there _all-comprehending_;
eternally-conscious, about that?'

* * * * *

'_Sept.,_ 1832.--"Not see the use of metaphysics?" A moderate
portion, taken at stated intervals, I hold to be of much
use as discipline of the faculties. I only object to them as
having an absorbing and anti-productive tendency. But 'tis not
always so; may not be so with you. Wait till you are two years
older, before you decide that 'tis your vocation. Time
enough at six-and-twenty to form yourself into a metaphysical
philosopher. The brain does not easily get too dry for
_that_. Happy you, in these ideas which give you a tendency to
optimism. May you become a proselyte to that consoling faith.
I shall never be able to follow you, but shall look after you
with longing eyes.'

* * * * *

'_Groton._--Spring has come, and I shall see you soon. If
I could pour into your mind all the ideas which have passed
through mine, you would be well entertained, I think, for
three or four days. But no hour will receive aught beyond its
own appropriate wealth.

'I am at present engaged in surveying the level on which the
public mind is poised. I no longer lie in wait for the
tragedy and comedy of life; the rules of its _prose_ engage my
attention. I talk incessantly with common-place people, full
of curiosity to ascertain the process by which materials,
apparently so jarring and incapable of classification, get
united into that strange whole, the American public. I have
read all Jefferson's letters, the North American, the daily
papers, &c., without end. H. seems to be weaving his Kantisms
into the American system in a tolerably happy manner.'

* * * * *

* * 'George Thompson has a voice of uncommon compass and
beauty; never sharp in its highest, or rough and husky in its
lowest, tones. A perfect enunciation, every syllable round
and energetic; though his manner was the one I love best,
very rapid, and full of eager climaxes. Earnestness in every
part,--sometimes impassioned earnestness,--a sort of "Dear
friends, believe, _pray_ believe, I love you, and you MUST
believe as I do" expression, even in the argumentative parts.
I felt, as I have so often done before, if I were a man, the
gift I would choose should be that of eloquence. That power of
forcing the vital currents of thousands of human hearts into
ONE current, by the constraining power of that most delicate
instrument, the voice, is so intense,--yes, I would prefer it
to a more extensive fame, a more permanent influence.'

'Did I describe to you my feelings on hearing Mr. Everett's
eulogy on Lafayette? No; I did not. That was exquisite.
The old, hackneyed story; not a new anecdote, not a single
reflection of any value; but the manner, the _manner_^ the
delicate inflections of voice, the elegant and appropriate
gesture, the sense of beauty produced by the whole, which
thrilled us all to tears, flowing from a deeper and purer
source than that which answers to pathos. This was fine; but
I prefer the Thompson manner. Then there is Mr. Webster's,
unlike either; simple grandeur, nobler, more impressive, less
captivating. I have heard few fine speakers; I wish I could
hear a thousand.

Are you vexed by my keeping the six volumes of your Goethe?
I read him very little either; I have so little time,--many
things to do at home,--my three children, and three pupils
besides, whom I instruct.

'By the way, I have always thought all that was said about
the anti-religious tendency of a classical education to be
old wives' tales. But their puzzles about Virgil's notions
of heaven and virtue, and his gracefully-described gods and
goddesses, have led me to alter my opinions; and I suspect,
from reminiscences of my own mental history, that if all
governors do not think the same 't is from want of that
intimate knowledge of their pupils' minds which I naturally
possess. I really find it difficult to keep their _morale_
steady, and am inclined to think many of my own sceptical
sufferings are traceable to this source. I well remember what
reflections arose in my childish mind from a comparison of the
Hebrew history, where every moral obliquity is shown out with
such naïveté, and the Greek history, full of sparkling deeds
and brilliant sayings, and their gods and goddesses, the
types of beauty and power, with the dazzling veil of flowery
language and poetical imagery cast over their vices and
failings.'

* * * * *

'My own favorite project, since I began seriously to entertain
any of that sort, is six historical tragedies; of which I have
the plans of three quite perfect. However, the attempts I
have made on them have served to show me the vast difference
between conception and execution. Yet I am, though abashed,
not altogether discouraged. My next favorite plan is a series
of tales illustrative of Hebrew history. The proper junctures
have occurred to me during my late studies on the historical
books of the Old Testament. This task, however, requires
a thorough and imbuing knowledge of the Hebrew manners and
spirit, with a chastened energy of imagination, which I am as
yet far from possessing. But if I should be permitted peace
and time to follow out my ideas, I have hopes. Perhaps it is
a weakness to confide to you embryo designs, which never may
glow into life, or mock me by their failure.'

* * * * *

'I have long had a suspicion that no mind can systematize its
knowledge, and carry on the concentrating processes, without
some fixed opinion on the subject of metaphysics. But that
indisposition, or even dread of the study, which you may
remember, has kept me from meddling with it, till lately, in
meditating on the life of Goethe, I thought I must get some
idea of the history of philosophical opinion in Germany, that
I might be able to judge of the influence it exercised upon
his mind. I think I can comprehend him every other way, and
probably interpret him satisfactorily to others,--if I can get
the proper materials. When I was in Cambridge, I got Fichte
and Jacobi; I was much interrupted, but some time and earnest
thought I devoted. Fichte I could not understand at all;
though the treatise which I read was one intended to be
popular, and which he says must compel (_bezwingen_) to
conviction. Jacobi I could understand in details, but not in
system. It seemed to me that his mind must have been moulded
by some other mind, with which I ought to be acquainted, in
order to know him well,--perhaps Spinoza's. Since I came home,
I have been consulting Buhle's and Tennemann's histories of
philosophy, and dipping into Brown, Stewart, and that class of
books.'

* * * * *

'After I had cast the burden of my cares upon you, I rested,
and read Petrarch for a day or two. But that could not last.
I had begun to "take an account of stock," as Coleridge calls
it, and was forced to proceed. He says few persons ever did
this faithfully, without being dissatisfied with the result,
and lowering their estimate of their supposed riches. With
me it has ended in the most humiliating sense of poverty; and
only just enough pride is left to keep your poor friend off
the parish. As it is, I have already asked items of several
besides yourself; but, though they have all given what they
had, it has by no means answered my purpose; and I have laid
their gifts aside, with my other hoards, which gleamed so
fairy bright, and are now, in the hour of trial, turned into
mere slate-stones. I am not sure that even if I do find the
philosopher's stone, I shall be able to transmute them into
the gold they looked so like formerly. It will be long before
I can give a distinct, and at the same time concise, account
of my present state. I believe it is a great era. I am
thinking now,--really thinking, I believe; certainly it seems
as if I had never done so before. If it does not kill me,
something will come of it. Never was my mind so active; and
the subjects are God, the universe, immortality. But shall I
be fit for anything till I have absolutely re-educated myself?
Am I, can I make myself, fit to write an account of half a
century of the existence of one of the master-spirits of this
world? It seems as if I had been very arrogant to dare
to think it; yet will I not shrink back from what I have
undertaken,--even by failure I shall learn much.'

* * * * *

'I am shocked to perceive you think I am _writing_ the life of
Goethe. No, indeed! I shall need a great deal of preparation
before I shall have it clear in my head, I have taken a great
many notes; but I shall not begin to write it, till it all
lies mapped out before me. I have no materials for ten years
of his life, from the time he went to Weimar, up to the
Italian journey. Besides, I wish to see the books that have
been written about him in Germany, by friend or foe. I wish to
look at the matter from all sides. New lights are constantly
dawning on me; and I think it possible I shall come out from
the Carlyle view, and perhaps from yours, and distaste you,
which will trouble me.

* * 'How am I to get the information I want, unless I go to
Europe? To whom shall I write to choose my materials? I have
thought of Mr. Carlyle, but still more of Goethe's friend, Von
Muller. I dare say he would be pleased at the idea of a life
of G. written in this hemisphere, and be very willing to help
me. If you have anything to tell me, you will, and not mince
matters. Of course, my impressions of Goethe's works cannot be
influenced by information I get about his _life_; but, as
to this latter, I suspect I must have been hasty in my
inferences. I apply to you without scruple. There are subjects
on which men and women usually talk a great deal, but apart
from one another. You, however, are well aware that I am very
destitute of what is commonly _called_ modesty. With regard to
this, how fine the remark of our present subject: "Courage
and modesty are virtues which every sort of society reveres,
because they are virtues which cannot be counterfeited; also,
they are known by the _same hue_." When that blush does not
come naturally to my face, I do not drop a veil to make people
think it is there. All this may be very unlovely, but it is
_I_.'

CHANNING ON SLAVERY.

'This is a noble work. So refreshing its calm, benign
atmosphere, after the pestilence-bringing gales of the day. It
comes like a breath borne over some solemn sea which separates
us from an island of righteousness. How valuable is it to have
among us a man who, standing apart from the conflicts of the
herd, watches the principles that are at work, with a truly
paternal love for what is human, and may be permanent; ready
at the proper point to give his casting-vote to the cause of
Right! The author has amplified on the grounds of his faith,
to a degree that might seem superfluous, if the question had
not become so utterly bemazed and bedarkened of late. After
all, it is probable that, in addressing the public at large,
it is _not_ best to express a thought in as few words as
possible; there is much classic authority for diffuseness.'

RICHTER.

_Groton_.--'Ritcher says, the childish heart vies in the
height of its surges with the manly, only is not furnished
with _lead_ for sounding them.

'How thoroughly am I converted to the love of Jean Paul, and
wonder at the indolence or shallowness which could resist
so long, and call his profuse riches want of system! What a
mistake! System, plan, there is, but on so broad a basis that
I did not at first comprehend it. In every page I am forced to
pencil. I will make me a book, or, as he would say, bind me a
bouquet from his pages, and wear it on my heart of hearts, and
be ever refreshing my wearied inward sense with its exquisite
fragrance. I must have improved, to love him as I do.'

IV.

CHARACTER.--AIMS AND IDEAS OF LIFE.

"O friend, how flat and tasteless such a life!
Impulse gives birth to impulse, deed to deed,
Still toilsomely ascending step by step,
Into an unknown realm of dark blue clouds.
What crowns the ascent? Speak, or I go no further.
I need a goal, an aim. I cannot toil,
_Because the steps are here_ in their ascent
Tell me THE END, or I sit still and weep."

"NATURLICHE TOCHTER,"

_Translated by Margaret._

"And so he went onward, ever onward, for twenty-seven
years--then, indeed, he had gone far enough."

GOETHE'S _words concerning Schiller_

* * * * *

I would say something of Margaret's inward condition, of her aims and views in life, while in Cambridge, before closing this chapter of her story. Her powers, whether of mind, heart, or will, have been sufficiently indicated in what has preceded. In the sketch of her friendships and of her studies, we have seen the affluence of her intellect, and the deep tenderness of her woman's nature. We have seen the energy which she displayed in study and labor.

But to what _aim_ were these powers directed? Had she any clear view of the demands and opportunities of life, any definite plan, any high, pure purpose? This is, after all, the test question, which detects the low-born and low-minded wearer of the robe of gold,--

"Touch them inwardly, they smell of copper."

Margaret's life _had an aim_, and she was, therefore, essentially a moral person, and not merely an overflowing genius, in whom "impulse gives birth to impulse, deed to deed." This aim was distinctly apprehended and steadily pursued by her from first to last. It was a high, noble one, wholly religious, almost Christian. It gave dignity to her whole career, and made it heroic.

This aim, from first to last, was SELF-CULTURE. If she ever was ambitious of knowledge and talent, as a means of excelling others, and gaining fame, position, admiration,--this vanity had passed before I knew her, and was replaced by the profound desire for a full development of her whole nature, by means of a full experience of life.

In her description of her own youth, she says, 'VERY EARLY I KNEW THAT THE ONLY OBJECT IN LIFE WAS TO GROW.' This is the passage:--

'I was now in the hands of teachers, who had not, since they
came on the earth, put to themselves one intelligent question
as to their business here. Good dispositions and employment
for the heart gave a tone to all they said, which was
pleasing, and not perverting. They, no doubt, injured those
who accepted the husks they proffered for bread, and believed
that exercise of memory was study, and to know what others
knew, was the object of study. But to me this was all
penetrable. I had known great living minds.--I had seen how
they took their food and did their exercise, and what their
objects were. _Very early I knew that the only object in
life was to grow_. I was often false to this knowledge, in
idolatries of particular objects, or impatient longings for
happiness, but I have never lost sight of it, have always been
controlled by it, and this first gift of thought has never
been superseded by a later love.'

In this she spoke truth. The good and the evil which flow from this great idea of self-development she fully realized. This aim of life, originally self-chosen, was made much more clear to her mind by the study of Goethe, the great master of this school, in whose unequalled eloquence this doctrine acquires an almost irresistible beauty and charm.

"Wholly religious, and almost Christian," I said, was this aim. It was religious, because it recognized something divine, infinite, imperishable in the human soul,--something divine in outward nature and providence, by which the soul is led along its appointed way. It was almost Christian in its superiority to all low, worldly, vulgar thoughts and cares; in its recognition of a high standard of duty, and a great destiny for man. In its strength, Margaret was enabled to do and bear, with patient fortitude, what would have crushed a soul not thus supported. Yet it is not the highest aim, for in all its forms, whether as personal improvement, the salvation of the soul, or ascetic religion, it has at its core a profound selfishness. Margaret's soul was too generous for any low form of selfishness. Too noble to become an Epicurean, too large-minded to become a modern ascetic, the defective nature of her rule of life, showed itself in her case, only in a certain supercilious tone toward "the vulgar herd," in the absence (at this period) of a tender humanity, and in an idolatrous hero-worship of genius and power. Afterward, too, she may have suffered from her desire for a universal human experience, and an unwillingness to see that we must often be content to enter the Kingdom, of Heaven halt and maimed,--that a perfect development here must often be wholly renounced.

But how much better to pursue with devotion, like that of Margaret, an imperfect aim, than to worship with lip-service, as most persons do, even though it be in a loftier temple, and before a holier shrine! With Margaret, the doctrine of self-culture was a devotion to which she sacrificed all earthly hopes and joys,--everything but manifest duty. And so her course was "onward, ever onward," like that of Schiller, to her last hour of life.

Burned in her cheek with ever deepening fire
The spirit's YOUTH, which never passes by;--
The COURAGE which, though worlds in hate conspire,
Conquers, at last, their dull hostility;--
The lofty FAITH, which, ever mounting higher,
Now presses on, now waiteth patiently,--
With which the good tends ever to his goal,
With which day finds, at last, the earnest soul.

But this high idea which governed our friend's life, brought her into sharp conflicts, which constituted the pathos and tragedy of her existence,--first with her circumstances, which seemed so inadequate to the needs of her nature,--afterwards with duties to relatives and friends,--and, finally, with the law of the Great Spirit, whose will she found it so hard to acquiesce in.

The circumstances in which Margaret lived appeared to her life a prison. She had no room for utterance, no sphere adequate; her powers were unemployed. With what eloquence she described this want of a field! Often have I listened with wonder and admiration, satisfied that she exaggerated the evil, and yet unable to combat her rapid statements. Could she have seen in how few years a way would open before her, by which she could emerge into an ample field,--how soon she would find troops of friends, fit society, literary occupation, and the opportunity of studying the great works of art in their own home,--she would have been spared many a sharp pang.

Margaret, like every really earnest and deep nature, felt the necessity of a religious faith as the foundation of character. The first notice which I find of her views on this point is contained in the following letter to one of her youthful friends, when only nineteen:--

* * * * *

'I have hesitated much whether to tell you what you ask about
my religion. You are mistaken! I have not formed an opinion.
I have determined not to form settled opinions at present.
Loving or feeble natures need a positive religion, a visible
refuge, a protection, as much in the passionate season of
youth as in those stages nearer to the grave. But mine is
not such. My pride is superior to any feelings I have yet
experienced: my affection is strong admiration, not the
necessity of giving or receiving assistance or sympathy. When
disappointed, I do not ask or wish consolation,--I wish to
know and feel my pain, to investigate its nature and its
source; I will not have my thoughts diverted, or my feelings
soothed; 'tis therefore that my young life is so singularly
barren of illusions. I know, I feel the time must come when
this proud and impatient heart shall be stilled, and turn from
the ardors of Search and Action, to lean on something above.
But--shall I say it?--the thought of that calmer era is to me
a thought of deepest sadness; so remote from my present being
is that future existence, which still the mind may conceive.
I believe in Eternal Progression. I believe in a God, a
Beauty and Perfection to which I am to strive all my life for
assimilation. From these two articles of belief, I draw the
rules by which I strive to regulate my life. But, though I
reverence all religions as necessary to the happiness of man,
I am yet ignorant of the religion of Revelation. Tangible
promises! well defined hopes! are things of which I do not
_now_ feel the need. At present, my soul is intent on this
life, and I think of religion as its rule; and, in my opinion,
this is the natural and proper course from youth to age. What
I have written is not hastily concocted, it has a meaning. I
have given you, in this little space, the substance of many
thoughts, the clues to many cherished opinions. 'Tis a subject
on which I rarely speak. I never said so much but once before.
I have here given you all I know, or think, on the most
important of subjects--could you but read understandingly!'

* * * * *

I find, in her journals for 1833, the following passages, expressing the religious purity of her aspirations at that time:--

'Blessed Father, nip every foolish wish in blossom. Lead me
_any way_ to truth and goodness; but if it might be, I would
not pass from idol to idol. Let no mean sculpture deform
a mind disorderly, perhaps ill-furnished, but spacious and
life-warm. Remember thy child, such as thou madest her, and
let her understand her little troubles, when possible, oh,
beautiful Deity!'

* * * * *

'_Sunday morning_.--Mr.--preached on the nature of our duties,
social and personal. The sweet dew of truth penetrated
my heart like balm. He pointed out the various means of
improvement, whereby the humblest of us may be beneficent
at last. How just, how nobly true,--how modestly, yet firmly
uttered,--his opinions of man,--of time,--of God!

'My heart swelled with prayer. I began to feel hope that time
and toil might strengthen me to despise the "vulgar parts
of felicity," and live as becomes an immortal creature. I am
sure, quite sure, that I am getting into the right road. Oh,
lead me, my Father! root out false pride and selfishness from
my heart; inspire me with virtuous energy, and enable me
to improve every talent for the eternal good of myself and
others.'

A friend of Margaret, some years older than herself, gives me the following narrative:--