Chapter V: BOSTON, By R.W. Emerson (5)

"I was," says she, in substance, "suffering keenly from a severe trial, and had secluded myself from all my friends, when Margaret, a girl of twenty, forced her way to me. She sat with me, and gave me her sympathy, and, with most affectionate interest, sought to draw me away from my gloom. As far as she was able, she gave me comfort. But as my thoughts were then much led to religious subjects, she sought to learn my religious experience, and listened to it with great interest. I told her how I had sat in darkness for two long years, waiting for the light, and in full faith that it would come; how I had kept my soul patient and quiet,--had surrendered self-will to God's will,--had watched and waited till at last His great mercy came in an infinite peace to my soul. Margaret was never weary of asking me concerning this state, and said, 'I would gladly give all my talents and knowledge for such an experience as this.'

"Several years after," continues this friend, "I was travelling with her, and we sat, one lovely night, looking at the river, as it rolled beneath the yellow moonlight. We spoke again of God's light in the soul, and I said--'Margaret! has that light dawned on _your_ soul?' She answered, 'I think it has. But, oh! it is so glorious that I fear it will not be permanent, and so precious that I dare not speak of it, lest it should be gone.'

"That was the whole of our conversation, and I did not speak to her again concerning it."

* * * * *

Before this time, however, during her residence at Cambridge, she seemed to reach the period of her existence in which she descended lowest into the depths of gloom. She felt keenly, at this time, the want of a home for her heart. Full of a profound tendency toward life, capable of an ardent love, her affections were thrown back on her heart, to become stagnant, and for a while to grow bitter there; Then it was that she felt how empty and worthless were all the attainments and triumphs of the mere intellect; then it was that "she went about to cause her heart to despair of all the labor she had taken under the sun." Had she not emerged from this valley of the shadow of death, and come on to a higher plane of conviction and hope, her life would have been a most painful tragedy. But, when we know how she passed on and up, ever higher and higher, to the mountain-top, leaving one by one these dark ravines and mist-shrouded valleys, and ascending to where a perpetual sunshine lay, above the region of clouds, and was able to overlook with eagle glance the widest panorama,--we can read, with sympathy indeed, but without pain, the following extracts from a journal:--

'It was Thanksgiving day, (Nov., 1831,) and I was obliged to
go to church, or exceedingly displease my father. I almost
always suffered much in church from a feeling of disunion with
the hearers and dissent from the preacher; but to-day, more
than ever before, the services jarred upon me from their
grateful and joyful tone. I was wearied out with mental
conflicts, and in a mood of most childish, child-like
sadness. I felt within myself great power, and generosity,
and tenderness; but it seemed to me as if they were all
unrecognized, and as if it was impossible that they should
be used in life. I was only one-and-twenty; the past was
worthless, the future hopeless; yet I could not remember ever
voluntarily to have done a wrong thing, and my aspiration
seemed very high. I looked round the church, and envied all
the little children; for I supposed they had parents who
protected them, so that they could never know this strange
anguish, this dread uncertainty. I knew not, then, that none
could have any father but God. I knew not, that I was not
the only lonely one, that I was not the selected Oedipus, the
special victim of an iron law. I was in haste for all to be
over, that I might get into the free air. * *

'I walked away over the fields as fast as I could walk. This
was my custom at that time, when I could no longer bear the
weight of my feelings, and fix my attention on any pursuit;
for I do believe I never voluntarily gave way to these
thoughts one moment. The force I exerted I think, even now,
greater than I ever knew in any other character. But when I
could bear myself no longer, I walked many hours, till the
anguish was wearied out, and I returned in a state of prayer.
To-day all seemed to have reached its height. It seemed as if
I could never return to a world in which I had no place,--to
the mockery of humanities. I could not act a part, nor seem
to live any longer. It was a sad and sallow day of the late
autumn. Slow processions of sad clouds were passing over a
cold blue sky; the hues of earth were dull, and gray, and
brown, with sickly struggles of late green here and there;
sometimes a moaning gust of wind drove late, reluctant leaves
across the path;--there was no life else. In the sweetness of
my present peace, such days seem to me made to tell man the
worst of his lot; but still that November wind can bring a
chill of memory.

'I paused beside a little stream, which I had envied in the
merry fulness of its spring life. It was shrunken, voiceless,
choked with withered leaves. I marvelled that it did not quite
lose itself in the earth. There was no stay for me, and I went
on and on, till I came to where the trees were thick about
a little pool, dark and silent. I sat down there. I did not
think; all was dark, and cold, and still. Suddenly the sun
shone out with that transparent sweetness, like the last smile
of a dying lover, which it will use when it has been unkind
all a cold autumn day. And, even then, passed into my thought
a beam from its true sun, from its native sphere, which has
never since departed from me. I remembered how, a little
child. I had stopped myself one day on the stairs, and asked,
how came I here? How is it that I seem to be this Margaret
Fuller? What does it mean? What shall I do about it? I
remembered all the times and ways in which the same thought
had returned. I saw how long it must be before the soul can
learn to act under these limitations of time and space, and
human nature; but I saw, also, that it MUST do it,--that
it must make all this false true,--and sow new and immortal
plants in the garden of God, before it could return again. I
saw there was no self; that selfishness was all folly, and
the result of circumstance; that it was only because I thought
self real that I suffered; that I had only to live in the idea
of the ALL, and all was mine. This truth came to me, and I
received it unhesitatingly; so that I was for that hour taken
up into God. In that true ray most of the relations of earth
seemed mere films, phenomena. * *

'My earthly pain at not being recognized never went deep after
this hour. I had passed the extreme of passionate sorrow; and
all check, all failure, all ignorance, have seemed temporary
ever since. When I consider that this will be nine years ago
next November, I am astonished that I have not gone on faster
since; that I am not yet sufficiently purified to be taken
back to God. Still, I did but touch then on the only haven
of Insight. You know what I would say. I was dwelling in the
ineffable, the unutterable. But the sun of earth set, and it
grew dark around; the moment came for me to go. I had never
been accustomed to walk alone at night, for my father was very
strict on that subject, but now I had not one fear. When I
came back, the moon was riding clear above the houses. I went
into the churchyard, and there offered a prayer as holy, if
not as deeply true, as any I know now; a prayer, which perhaps
took form as the guardian angel of my life. If that word in
the Bible, Selah, means what gray-headed old men think it
does, when they read aloud, it should be written here,--Selah!

'Since that day, I have never more been completely engaged in
self; but the statue has been emerging, though slowly, from
the block. Others may not see the promise even of its pure
symmetry, but I do, and am learning to be patient. I shall be
all human yet; and then the hour will come to leave humanity,
and live always in the pure ray.

'This first day I was taken up; but the second time the Holy
Ghost descended like a dove. I went out again for a day, but
this time it was spring. I walked in the fields of Groton.
But I will not describe that day; its music still sounds
too sweetly near. Suffice it to say, I gave it all into our
Father's hands, and was no stern-weaving Fate more, but one
elected to obey, and love, and at last know. Since then I have
suffered, as I must suffer again, till all the complex be
made simple, but I have never been in discord with the grand
harmony.'

GROTON AND PROVIDENCE.

LETTERS AND JOURNALS.

* * * * *

"What hath not man sought out and found,
But his dear God? Who yet his glorious love
Embosoms in us, mellowing the ground
With showers, and frosts, with love and awe."

HERBERT.

"No one need pride himself upon Genius, for it is the free-gift
of God; but of honest Industry and true devotion to his
destiny any man may well be proud; indeed, this thorough,
integrity of purpose is itself the Divine Idea in its most
common form, and no really honest mind is without communion
with God"

FICHTE.

"God did anoint thee with his odorous oil,
To wrestle, not to reign; and he assigns
All thy tears over, like pure crystallines,
For younger fellow-workers of the soil
To wear for amulets. So others shall
Take patience, labor, to their hearts and hands,
From thy hands, and thy heart, and thy brave cheer,
And God's grace fructify through thee to all."

ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

"While I was restless, nothing satisfied,
Distrustful, most perplexed--yet felt somehow
A mighty power was brooding, taking shape
Within me; and this lasted till one night
When, as I sat revolving it and more,
A still voice from without said,--'Seest thou not,
Desponding child, whence came defeat and loss?
Even from thy strength.'"

BROWNING.

III.

GROTON AND PROVIDENCE.

* * * * *

'Heaven's discipline has been invariable to me. The seemingly
most pure and noble hopes have been blighted; the seemingly
most promising connections broken. The lesson has been
endlessly repeated: "Be humble, patient, self-sustaining; hope
only for occasional aids; love others, but not engrossingly,
for by being much alone your appointed task can best be done!"
What a weary work is before me, ere that lesson shall be fully
learned! Who shall wonder at the stiff-necked, and rebellious
folly of young Israel, bowing down to a brute image, though
the prophet was bringing messages from the holy mountain,
while one's own youth is so obstinately idolatrous! Yet will
I try to keep the heart with diligence, nor ever fear that the
sun is gone out because I shiver in the cold and dark!'

Such was the tone of resignation in which Margaret wrote from Groton, Massachusetts, whither, much to her regret, her father removed in the spring of 1833. Extracts from letters and journals will show how stern was her schooling there, and yet how constant was her faith, that

"God keeps a niche
In heaven to hold our idols! And albeit
He breaks them to our faces, and denies
That our close kisses should impair their white,
I know we shall behold them raised, complete,
The dust shook from their beauty,--glorified,
New Memnons singing in the great God-light."

SAD WELCOME HOME.

'_Groton, April_ 25, 1833.--I came hither, summoned by the
intelligence, that our poor--had met with a terrible accident.
I found the dear child,--who had left me so full of joy and
eagerness, that I thought with a sigh, not of envy, how happy
he, at least, would be here,--burning with fever. He had
expected me impatiently, and was very faint lest it should not
be "Margaret" who had driven up. I confess I greeted our
new home with a flood of bitter tears. He behaves with great
patience, sweetness, and care for the comfort of others. This
has been a severe trial for mother, fatigued, too, as she was,
and full of care; but her conduct is angelic. I try to find
consolation in all kinds of arguments, and to distract my
thoughts till the precise amount of injury is surely known.
I am not idle a moment. When not-with--, in whose room I sit,
sewing, and waiting upon him, or reading aloud a great part of
the day, I solace my soul with Goethe, and follow his guidance
into realms of the "Wahren, Guten, and Schönen."'

OCCUPATIONS.

'_May_, 1833.--As to German, I have done less than I hoped, so
much had the time been necessarily broken up. I have with
me the works of Goethe which I have not yet read, and am
now engaged upon "Kunst and Alterthum," and "Campagne in
Frankreich." I still prefer Goethe to any one, and, as I
proceed, find more and more to learn, and am made to feel that
my general notion of his mind is most imperfect, and needs
testing and sifting.

'I brought your beloved Jean Paul with me, too. I cannot yet
judge well, but think we shall not be intimate. His infinitely
variegated, and certainly most exquisitely colored, web
fatigues attention. I prefer, too, wit to humor, and daring
imagination to the richest fancy. Besides, his philosophy
and religion seem to be of the sighing sort, and, having some
tendency that way myself, I want opposing force in a favorite
author. Perhaps I have spoken unadvisedly; if so, I shall
recant on further knowledge.'

And thus recant she did, when familiar acquaintance with the genial and sagacious humorist had won for him her reverent love.

RICHTER.

'Poet of Nature! Gentlest of the wise,
Most airy of the fanciful, most keen
Of satirists!--thy thoughts, like butterflies,
Still near the sweetest scented flowers have been
With Titian's colors thou canst sunset paint,
With Raphael's dignity, celestial love;
With Hogarth's pencil, each deceit and feint
Of meanness and hypocrisy reprove;

Canst to devotion's highest flight sublime
Exalt the mind, by tenderest pathos' art,
Dissolve, in purifying tears, the heart,
Or bid it, shuddering, recoil at crime;
The fond illusions of the youth and maid,
At which so many world-formed sages sneer,
When by thy altar-lighted torch displayed,
Our natural religion must appear.
All things in thee tend to one polar star,
Magnetic all thy influences are!'

'Some murmur at the "want of system" in Richter's writings.

'A labyrinth! a flowery wilderness!
Some in thy "slip-boxes" and "honey-moons"
Complain of--_want of order_, I confess,
But not of _system_ in its highest sense.
Who asks a guiding clue through this wide mind,
In love of Nature such will surely find.
In tropic climes, live like the tropic bird,
Whene'er a spice-fraught grove may tempt thy stay;
Nor be by cares of colder climes disturbed--
No frost the summer's bloom shall drive away;
Nature's wide temple and the azure dome
Have plan enough, for the free spirit's home!'

'Your Schiller has already given me great pleasure. I have
been reading the "Revolt in the Netherlands" with intense
interest, and have reflected much upon it. The volumes are
numbered in my little book-case, and as the eye runs over
them, I thank the friendly heart that put all this genius and
passion within my power.

'I am glad, too, that you thought of lending me "Bigelow's
Elements." I have studied the Architecture attentively, till
I feel quite mistress of it all. But I want more engravings,
Vitruvius, Magna Græcia, the Ionian Antiquities, &c.
Meanwhile, I have got out all our tours in Italy. Forsyth,
a book I always loved much, I have re-read with increased
pleasure, by this new light. Goethe, too, studied architecture
while in Italy; so his books are full of interesting
information; and Madame De Stael, though not deep, is
tasteful.'

* * * * *

'American History! Seriously, my mind is regenerating as to
my country, for I am beginning to appreciate the United States
and its great men. The violent antipathies,--the result of an
exaggerated love for, shall I call it by so big a name as
the "poetry of being?"--and the natural distrust arising from
being forced to hear the conversation of half-bred men, all
whose petty feelings were roused to awkward life by the paltry
game of local politics,--are yielding to reason and calmer
knowledge. Had I but been educated in the knowledge of such
men as Jefferson, Franklin, Rush! I have learned now to know
them partially. And I rejoice, if only because my father and
I can have so much in common on this topic. All my other
pursuits have led me away from him; here he has much
information and ripe judgment. But, better still, I hope to
feel no more that sometimes despairing, sometimes insolently
contemptuous, feeling of incongeniality with my time and
place. Who knows but some proper and attainable object of
pursuit may present itself to the cleared eye? At any rate,
wisdom is good, if it brings neither bliss nor glory.'

* * * * *

_March_, 1834.--Four pupils are a serious and fatiguing charge
for one of my somewhat ardent and impatient disposition.
Five days in the week I have given daily lessons in three
languages, in Geography and History, besides many other
exercises on alternate days. This has consumed often eight,
always five hours of my day. There has been, also, a great
deal of needle-work to do, which is now nearly finished, so
that I shall not be obliged to pass my time about it when
everything looks beautiful, as I did last summer. We have
had very poor servants, and, for some time past, only one.
My mother has been often ill. My grandmother, who passed the
winter with us, has been ill. Thus, you may imagine, as I am
the only grown-up daughter, that my time has been considerably
taxed.

'But as, sad or merry, I must always be learning, I laid
down a course of study at the beginning of winter, comprising
certain subjects, about which I had always felt deficient.
These were the History and Geography of modern Europe,
beginning the former in the fourteenth century; the Elements
of Architecture; the works of Alfieri, with his opinions
on them; the historical and critical works of Goethe and
Schiller, and the outlines of history of our own country.

'I chose this time as one when I should have nothing to
distract or dissipate my mind. I have nearly completed this
course, in the style I proposed,--not minute or thorough. I
confess,--though I have had only three evenings in the week,
and chance hours in the day, for it. I am very glad I
have undertaken it, and feel the good effects already.
Occasionally, I try my hand at composition, but have not
completed anything to my own satisfaction. I have sketched
a number of plans, but if ever accomplished, it must be in a
season of more joyful energy, when my mind has been renovated,
and refreshed by change of scene or circumstance. My
translation of Tasso cannot be published at present, if 'it
ever is.'

* * * * *

'My object is to examine thoroughly, as far as my time
and abilities will permit, the evidences of the Christian
Religion. I have endeavored to get rid of this task as much
and as long as possible; to be content with superficial
notions, and, if I may so express it, to adopt religion as a
matter of taste. But I meet with infidels very often; two
or three of my particular friends are deists; and their
arguments, with distressing sceptical notions of my own, are
haunting me forever. I must satisfy myself; and having once
begun, I shall go on as far as I can.

'My mind often swells with thoughts on these subjects, which
I long to pour out on some person of superior calmness and
strength, and fortunate in more accurate knowledge. I should
feel such a quieting reaction. But, generally, it seems best
that I should go through these conflicts alone. The process
will be slower, more irksome, more distressing, but the
results will be my own, and I shall feel greater confidence in
them.'

MISS MARTINEAU.

In the summer of 1835, Margaret found a fresh stimulus to
self-culture in the society of Miss Martineau, whom she met
while on a visit at Cambridge, in the house of her friend,
Mrs. Farrar. How animating this intercourse then was to her,
appears from her journals.

Miss Martineau received me so kindly as to banish all
embarrassment at once. We had some talk about "Carlyleism,"
and I was not quite satisfied with the ground she took, but
there was no opportunity for full discussion. I wished to
give myself wholly up to receive an impression of her. What
shrewdness in detecting various shades of character! Yet, what
she said of Hannah More and Miss Edgeworth, grated upon my
feelings.'

Again, later:--

'I cannot conceive how we chanced upon the subject of our
conversation, but never shall I forget what she said. It has
bound me to her. In that hour, most unexpectedly to me,
we passed the barrier that separates acquaintance from
friendship, and I saw how greatly her heart is to be valued.'

And again:--

'We sat together close to the pulpit. I was deeply moved by
Mr.--'s manner of praying for "our friends," and I put up this
prayer for my companion, which I recorded, as it rose in my
heart: "Author of good, Source of all beauty and holiness,
thanks to Thee for the purifying, elevating communion that I
have enjoyed with this beloved and revered being. Grant, that
the thoughts she has awakened, and the bright image of her
existence, may live in my memory, inciting my earth-bound
spirit to higher words and deeds. May her path be guarded
and blessed. May her noble mind be kept firmly poised in its
native truth, unsullied by prejudice or error, and strong to
resist whatever outwardly or inwardly shall war against its
high vocation. May each day bring to this generous seeker new
riches of true philosophy and of Divine Love. And, amidst
all trials, give her to know and feel that Thou, the
All-sufficing, art with her, leading her on through eternity
to likeness of Thyself."

* * * * *

'I sigh for an intellectual guide. Nothing but the sense of
what God has done for me, in bringing me nearer to himself,
saves me from despair. With what envy I looked at Flaxman's
picture of Hesiod sitting at the feet of the Muse! How blest
would it be to be thus instructed in one's vocation! Anything
would I do and suffer, to be sure that, when leaving earth, I
should not be haunted with recollections of "aims unreached,
occasions lost." I have hoped some friend would do,--what
none has ever yet done,--comprehend me wholly, mentally, and
morally, and enable me better to comprehend myself. I have had
some hope that Miss Martineau might be this friend, but cannot
yet tell. She has what I want,--vigorous reasoning powers,
invention, clear views of her objects,--and she has been
trained to the best means of execution. Add to this, that
there are no strong intellectual sympathies between us, such
as would blind her to my defects.'

* * * * *

'A delightful letter from Miss Martineau. I mused long upon
the noble courage with which she stepped forward into life,
and the accurate judgment with which she has become acquainted
with its practical details, without letting her fine
imagination become tamed. I shall be cheered and sustained,
amidst all fretting and uncongenial circumstances, by
remembrance of her earnest love of truth and ardent faith.'

ILLNESS

'A terrible feeling in my head, but kept about my usual
avocations. Read Ugo Foscolo's Sepolcri, and Pindemonti's
answer, but could not relish either, so distressing was the
weight on the top of the brain; sewed awhile, and then went
out to get warm, but could not, though I walked to the very
end of Hazel-grove, and the sun was hot upon me. Sat down,
and, though seemingly able to think with only the lower part
of my head, meditated literary plans, with full hope that, if
I could command leisure, I might do something good. It seemed
as if I should never reach home, as I was obliged to sit down
incessantly.

'For nine long days and nights, without intermission, all was
agony,--fever and dreadful pain in my head. Mother tended me
like an angel all that time, scarcely ever leaving me, night
or day. My father, too, habitually so sparing in tokens of
affection, was led by his anxiety to express what he felt
towards me in stronger terms than he had ever used in the
whole course of my life. He thought I might not recover,
and one morning, coming into my room, after a few moments'
conversation, he said: "My dear, I have been thinking of
you in the night, and I cannot remember that you have any
_faults_. You have defects, of course, as all mortals have,
but I do not know that you have a single fault." These
words,--so strange from him, who had scarce ever in my
presence praised me, and who, as I knew, abstained from praise
as hurtful to his children,--affected me to tears at the
time, although I could not foresee how dear and consolatory
this extravagant expression of regard would very soon become.
The family were deeply moved by the fervency of his prayer
of thanksgiving, on the Sunday morning when I was somewhat
recovered; and to mother he said, "I have no room for a
painful thought now that our daughter is restored."

'For myself, I thought I should die; but I was calm, and
looked to God without fear. When I remembered how much
struggle awaited me if I remained, and how improbable it
was that any of my cherished plans would bear fruit, I felt
willing to go. But Providence did not so will it. A much
darker dispensation for our family was in store.'

DEATH OF HER FATHER.

'On the evening of the 30th of September, 1835, my father was
seized with cholera, and on the 2d of October, was a corpse.
For the first two days, my grief, under this calamity, was
such as I dare not speak of. But since my father's head
is laid in the dust, I feel an awful calm, and am becoming
familiar with the thoughts of being an orphan. I have prayed
to God that duty may now be the first object, and self set
aside. May I have light and strength to do what is right, in
the highest sense, for my mother, brothers, and sister. * *

'It has been a gloomy week, indeed. The children have all been
ill, and dearest mother is overpowered with sorrow, fatigue,
and anxiety. I suppose she must be ill too, when the
children recover. I shall endeavor to keep my mind steady, by
remembering that there is a God, and that grief is but for a
season. Grant, oh Father, that neither the joys nor sorrows
of this past year shall have visited my heart in vain! Make me
wise and strong for the performance of immediate duties, and
ripen me, by what means Thou seest best, for those which lie
beyond.

'My father's image follows me constantly. Whenever I am in
my room, he seems to open the door, and to look on me with a
complacent, tender smile. What would I not give to have it
in my power, to make that heart once more beat with joy! The
saddest feeling is the remembrance of little things, in which
I have fallen short of love and duty. I never sympathized in
his liking for this farm, and secretly wondered how a mind
which had, for thirty years, been so widely engaged in the
affairs of men, could care so much for trees and crops.
But now, amidst the beautiful autumn days, I walk over the
grounds, and look with painful emotions at every little
improvement. He had selected a spot to place a seat where
I might go to read alone, and had asked me to visit it. I
contented myself with "When you please, father;" but we never
went! What would I not now give, if I had fixed a time, and
shown more interest! A day or two since, I went there. The
tops of the distant blue hills were veiled in delicate autumn
haze; soft silence brooded over the landscape; on one side, a
brook gave to the gently sloping meadow spring-like verdure;
on the other, a grove,--which he had named for me,--lay softly
glowing in the gorgeous hues of October. It was very sad.
May this sorrow give me a higher sense of duty in the
relationships which remain.

'Dearest mother is worn to a shadow. Sometimes, when I look on
her pale face, and think of all her grief, and the cares and
anxieties which now beset her, I am appalled by the thought
that she may not continue with us long. Nothing sustains me
now but the thought that God, who saw fit to restore me to
life when I was so very willing to leave it,--more so, perhaps
than I shall ever be again,--must have some good work for me
to do.'

* * * * *

'_Nov. 3, 1835_.--I thought I should be able to write ere now,
how our affairs were settled, but that time has not come
yet. My father left no will, and, in consequence, our path
is hedged in by many petty difficulties. He has left less
property than we had anticipated, for he was not fortunate in
his investments in real estate. There will, however, be enough
to maintain my mother, and educate the children decently. I
have often had reason to regret being of the softer sex,
and never more than now. If I were an eldest son, I could be
guardian to my brothers and sister, administer the estate,
and really become the head of my family. As it is, I am very
ignorant of the management and value of property, and of
practical details. I always hated the din of such affairs, and
hoped to find a life-long refuge from them in the serene world
of literature and the arts. But I am now full of desire to
learn them, that I may be able to advise and act, where it
is necessary. The same mind which has made other attainments,
can, in time, compass these, however uncongenial to its nature
and habits.'

* * * * *

'I shall be obliged to give up selfishness in the end. May
God enable me to see the way clear, and not to let down
the intellectual, in raising the moral tone of my mind.
Difficulties and duties became distinct the very night after
my father's death, and a solemn prayer was offered then, that
I might combine what is due to others with what is due to
myself. The spirit of that prayer I shall constantly endeavor
to maintain. What ought to be done for a few months to come is
plain, and, as I proceed, the view will open.'

TRIAL.

The death of her father brought in its train a disappointment as keen as Margaret could well have been called on to bear. For two years and more she had been buoyed up to intense effort by the promise of a visit to Europe, for the end of completing her culture. And as the means of equitably remunerating her parents for the cost of such a tour, she had faithfully devoted herself to the teaching of the younger members of the family. Her honored friends, Professor and Mrs. Farrar, who were about visiting the Old World, had invited her to be their companion; and, as Miss Martineau was to return to England in the ship with them, the prospect before her was as brilliant with generous hopes as her aspiring imagination could conceive. But now, in her journal of January 1, 1836, she writes:--

'The New-year opens upon me under circumstances inexpressibly
sad. I must make the last great sacrifice, and, apparently,
for evil to me and mine. Life, as I look forward, presents a
scene of struggle and privation only. Yet "I bate not a jot of
heart," though much "of hope." My difficulties are not to
be compared with those over which many strong souls have
triumphed. Shall I then despair? If I do, I am not a strong
soul.'

Margaret's family treated her, in this exigency, with the grateful consideration due to her love, and urgently besought her to take the necessary means, and fulfil her father's plan. But she could not make up her mind to forsake them, preferring rather to abandon her long-cherished literary designs. Her struggles and her triumph thus appear in her letters:--

'_January 30, 1836_.--I was a great deal with Miss Martineau,
while in Cambridge, and love her more than ever. She is to
stay till August, and go to England with Mr. and Mrs. Farrar.
If I should accompany them I shall be with her while in
London, and see the best literary society. If I should go,
you will be with mother the while, will not you?[A] Oh,
dear E----, you know not how I fear and tremble to come to
a decision. My temporal all seems hanging upon it, and the
prospect is most alluring. A few thousand dollars would make
all so easy, so safe. As it is, I cannot tell what is coming
to us, for the estate will not be settled when I go. I pray to
God ceaselessly that I may decide wisely.'

* * * * *

'_April 17th, 1836_.--If I am not to go with you I shall
be obliged to tear my heart, by a violent effort, from its
present objects and natural desires. But I shall feel the
necessity, and will do it if the life-blood follows through
the rent. Probably, I shall not even think it best to
correspond with you at all while you are in Europe. Meanwhile,
let us be friends indeed. The generous and unfailing love
which you have shown me during these three years, when I
could be so little to you, your indulgence for my errors and
fluctuations, your steady faith in my intentions, have
done more to shield and sustain me than any other earthly
influence. If I must now learn to dispense with feeling them
constantly near me, at least their remembrance can never,
never be less dear. I suppose I ought, instead of grieving
that we are soon to be separated, now to feel grateful for
an intimacy of extraordinary permanence, and certainly of
unstained truth and perfect freedom on both sides.

'As to my feelings, I take no pleasure in speaking of them;
but I know not that I could give you a truer impression of
them, than by these lines which I translate from the German of
Uhland. They are entitled "JUSTIFICATION."

"Our youthful fancies, idly fired,
The fairest visions would embrace;
These, with impetuous tears desired,
Float upward into starry space;
Heaven, upon the suppliant wild,
Smiles down a gracious _No_!--In vain
The strife! Yet be consoled, poor child,
For the wish passes with the pain.

But when from such idolatry
The heart has turned, and wiser grown,
In earnestness and purity
Would make a nobler plan its own,--
Yet, after all its zeal and care,
Must of its chosen aim despair,--
Some bitter tears may be forgiven
By _Man_, at least,--_we trust, by Heaven_."'

[Footnote A: Her eldest brother.]

BIRTH-DAY.

'_May 23d, 1836_.--I have just been reading Goethe's
Lebensregel. It is easy to say "Do not trouble yourself with
useless regrets for the past; enjoy the present, and leave the
future to God." But it is _not_ easy for characters, which
are by nature neither _calm_ nor _careless_, to act upon these
rules. I am rather of the opinion of Novalis, that "Wer sich
der hochsten Lieb ergeben Genest von ihnen Wunden nie."

'But I will endeavor to profit by the instructions of the
great philosopher who teaches, I think, what Christ did, to
use without overvaluing the world.

'Circumstances have decided that I must not go to Europe, and
shut upon me the door, as I think, forever, to the scenes I
could have loved. Let me now try to forget myself, and act
for others' sakes. What I can do with my pen, I know not. At
present, I feel no confidence or hope. The expectations so
many have been led to cherish by my conversational powers, I
am disposed to deem ill-founded. I do not think I can produce
a valuable work. I do not feel in my bosom that confidence
necessary to sustain me in such undertakings,--the confidence
of genius. But I am now but just recovered from bodily
illness, and still heart-broken by sorrow and disappointment.
I may be renewed again, and feel differently. If I do not
soon, I will make up my mind to teach. I can thus get money,
which I will use for the benefit of my dear, gentle, suffering
mother,--my brothers and sister. This will be the greatest
consolation to me, at all events.'

DEATH IN LIFE.

'The moon tempted me out, and I set forth for a house at
no great distance. The beloved south-west was blowing; the
heavens were flooded with light, which could not diminish the
tremulously pure radiance of the evening star; the air was
full of spring sounds, and sweet spring odors came up from
the earth. I felt that happy sort of feeling, as if the soul's
pinions were budding. My mind was full of poetic thoughts, and
nature's song of promise was chanting in my heart.

'But what a change when I entered that human dwelling! I will
try to give you an impression of what you, I fancy, have
never come in contact with. The little room--they have but
one--contains a bed, a table, and some old chairs. A single
stick of wood burns in the fire-place. It is not needed now,
but those who sit near it have long ceased to know what spring
is. They are all frost. Everything is old and faded, but at
the same time as clean and carefully mended as possible. For
all they know of pleasure is to get strength to sweep those
few boards, and mend those old spreads and curtains. That sort
of self-respect they have, and it is all of pride their many
years of poor-tith has left them.

'And there they sit,--mother and daughter! In the mother,
ninety years have quenched every thought and every feeling,
except an imbecile interest about her daughter, and the sort
of self-respect I just spoke of. Husband, sons, strength,
health, house and lands, all are gone. And yet these losses
have not had power to bow that palsied head to the grave.
Morning by morning she rises without a hope, night by night
she lies down vacant or apathetic; and the utmost use she can
make of the day is to totter three or four times across the
floor by the assistance of her staff. Yet, though we wonder
that she is still permitted to cumber the ground, joyless and
weary, "the tomb of her dead self," we look at this dry leaf,
and think how green it once was, and how the birds sung to it
in its summer day.

'But can we think of spring, or summer, or anything joyous
or really life-like, when we look at the daughter?--that
bloodless effigy of humanity, whose care is to eke out this
miserable existence by means of the occasional doles of those
who know how faithful and good a child she has been to that
decrepit creature; who thinks herself happy if she can be
well enough, by hours of patient toil, to perform those menial
services which they both require; whose talk is of the price
of pounds of sugar, and ounces of tea, and yards of flannel;
whose only intellectual resource is hearing five or six
verses of the Bible read every day,--"my poor head," she says,
"cannot bear any more;" and whose only hope is the death to
which she has been so slowly and wearily advancing, through
many years like this.

'The saddest part is, that she does _not wish_ for death. She
clings to this sordid existence. Her soul is now so habitually
enwrapt in the meanest cares, that if she were to be lifted
two or three steps upward, she would not know what to do with
life; how, then, shall she soar to the celestial heights?
Yet she ought; for she has ever been good, and her narrow and
crushing duties have been performed with a self-sacrificing
constancy, which I, for one, could never hope to equal.

'While I listened to her,--and I often think it good for me
to listen to her patiently,--the expressions you used in your
letter, about "drudgery," occurred to me. I remember the time
when I, too, deified the "soul's impulses." It is a noble
worship; but, if we do not aid it by a just though limited
interpretation of what "Ought" means, it will degenerate into
idolatry. For a time it was so with me, and I am not yet good
enough to love the _Ought_.

'Then I came again into the open air, and saw those
resplendent orbs moving so silently, and thought that they
were perhaps tenanted, not only by beings in whom I can see
the germ of a possible angel, but by myriads like this poor
creature, in whom that germ is, so far as we can see, blighted
entirely, I could not help saying, "O my Father! Thou, whom
we are told art all Power, and also all Love, how canst Thou
suffer such even transient specks on the transparence of
Thy creation? These grub-like lives, undignified even by
passion,--these life-long quenchings of the spark divine.--why
dost Thou suffer them? Is not Thy paternal benevolence
impatient till such films be dissipated?"

'Such questionings once had power to move my spirit deeply;
now, they but shade my mind for an instant. I have faith in a
glorious explanation, that shall make manifest perfect justice
and perfect wisdom.'

LITERATURE.

Cut off from access to the scholars, libraries, lectures, galleries of art, museums of science, antiquities, and historic scenes of Europe, Margaret bent her powers to use such opportunities of culture as she could command in her solitary country-home. Journals and letters thus bear witness to her zeal:--

'I am having one of my "intense" times, devouring book after
book. I never stop a minute, except to talk with mother,
having laid all little duties on the shelf for a few days.
Among other things, I have twice read through the life of Sir
J. Mackintosh; and it has suggested so much to me, that I
am very sorry I did not talk it over with you. It is quite
gratifying, after my late chagrin, to find Sir James, with
all his metaphysical turn, and ardent desire to penetrate it,
puzzling so over the German philosophy, and particularly what
I was myself troubled about, at Cambridge,--Jacobi's letters
to Fichte.

'Few things have ever been written more discriminating or more
beautiful than his strictures upon the Hindoo character, his
portrait of Fox, and his second letter to Robert Hall, after
his recovery from derangement. Do you remember what he says of
the want of brilliancy in Priestley's moral sentiments? Those
remarks, though slight, seem to me to show the quality of his
mind more decidedly than anything in the book. That so much
learning, benevolence, and almost unparalleled fairness of
mind, should be in a great measure lost to the world, for want
of earnestness of purpose, might impel us to attach to the
latter attribute as much importance as does the wise uncle in
Wilhelm Meister.'

* * * * *

'As to what you say of Shelley, it is true that the unhappy
influences of early education prevented his ever attaining
clear views of God, life, and the soul. At thirty, he was
still a seeker,--an experimentalist. But then his should not
be compared with such a mind as ----'s, which, having no such
exuberant fancy to tame, nor various faculties to develop,
naturally comes to maturity sooner. Had Shelley lived twenty
years longer, I have no doubt he would have become a fervent
Christian, and thus have attained that mental harmony which
was necessary to him. It is true, too, as you say, that we
always feel a melancholy imperfection in what he writes. But I
love to think of those other spheres in which so pure and rich
a being shall be perfected; and I cannot allow his faults
of opinion and sentiment to mar my enjoyment of the vast
capabilities, and exquisite perception of beauty, displayed
everywhere in his poems.'

* * * * *

'_March 17, 1836_.--I think Herschel will be very valuable to
me, from the slight glance I have taken of it, and I thank Mr.
F.; but do not let him expect anything of me because I have
ventured on a book so profound as the Novum Organum. I have
been examining myself with severity, intellectually as well as
morally, and am shocked to find how vague and superficial is
all my knowledge. I am no longer surprised that I should
have appeared harsh and arrogant in my strictures to one who,
having a better-disciplined mind, is more sensible of the
difficulties in the way of really knowing and doing anything,
and who, having more Wisdom, has more Reverence too. All that
passed at your house will prove very useful to me; and I trust
that I am approximating somewhat to that genuine humility
which is so indispensable to true regeneration. But do not
speak of this to--, for I am not yet sure of the state of my
mind.'

* * * * *

'1836.--I have, for the time, laid aside _De Stael_ and
_Bacon_, for _Martineau_ and _Southey_. I find, with delight,
that the former has written on the very subjects I wished most
to talk out with her, and probably I shall receive more from
her in this way than by personal intercourse,--for I think
more of her character when with her, and am stimulated through
my affections. As to Southey, I am steeped to the lips in
enjoyment. I am glad I did not know this poet earlier; for I
am now just ready to receive his truly exalting influences in
some degree. I think, in reading, I shall place him next to
Wordsworth. I have finished Herschel, and really believe I
am a little wiser. I have read, too, Heyne's letters
twice, Sartor Resartus once, some of Goethe's late diaries,
Coleridge's Literary Remains, and drank a great deal from
Wordsworth. By the way, do you know his "Happy Warrior"? I
find my insight of this sublime poet perpetually deepening.'

* * * * *

'Mr. ---- says the Wanderjahre is "_wise._" It must be
presumed so; and yet one is not satisfied. I was perfectly so
with my manner of interpreting the Lehrjahre; but this sequel
keeps jerking my clue, and threatens to break it. I do not
know our Goethe yet. I have changed my opinion about his
religious views many times. Sometimes I am tempted to think
that it is only his wonderful knowledge of human nature which
has excited in me such reverence for his philosophy, and that
no worthy fabric has been elevated on this broad foundation.
Yet often, when suspecting that I have found a huge gap, the
next turning it appears that it was but an air-hole, and
there is a brick all ready to stop it. On the whole, though
my enthusiasm for the Goetherian philosophy is checked, my
admiration for the genius of Goethe is in nowise lessened, and
I stand in a sceptical attitude, ready to try his philosophy,
and, if needs must, play the Eclectic.'

'Did I write that a kind-hearted neighbor, fearing I might
be _dull_, sent to offer me the use of a _book-caseful_ of
Souvenirs, Gems, and such-like glittering ware? I took a two
or three year old "Token," and chanced on a story, called the
"Gentle Boy," which I remembered to have heard was written by
somebody in Salem. It is marked by so much grace and delicacy
of feeling, that I am very desirous to know the author, whom I
take to be a lady.' * *

'With regard to what you say about the American Monthly, my
answer is, I would gladly sell some part of my mind for lucre,
to get the command of time; but I will not sell my soul: that
is, I am perfectly willing to take the trouble of writing for
money to pay the seamstress; but I am _not_ willing to have
what I write mutilated, or what I ought to say dictated to
suit the public taste. You speak of my writing about Tieck. It
is my earnest wish to interpret the German authors of whom
I am most fond to such Americans as are ready to receive.
Perhaps some might sneer at the notion of my becoming a
teacher; but where I love so much, surely I might inspire
others to love a little; and I think this kind of culture
would be precisely the counterpoise required by the
utilitarian tendencies of our day and place. My very
imperfections may be of value. While enthusiasm is yet fresh,
while I am still a novice, it may be more easy to communicate
with those quite uninitiated, than when I shall have attained
to a higher and calmer state of knowledge. I hope a periodical
may arise, by and by, which may think me worthy to furnish a
series of articles on German literature, giving room enough
and perfect freedom to say what I please. In this case, I
should wish to devote at least eight numbers to Tieck, and
should use the Garden of Poesy, and my other translations.

'I have sometimes thought of translating his Little Red Riding
Hood, for children. If it could be adorned with illustrations,
like those in the "Story without an End," it would make a
beautiful little book; but I do not know that this could be
done in Boston. There is much meaning that children could not
take in; but, as they would never discover this till able
to receive the whole, the book corresponds exactly with my
notions of what a child's book should be.

'I should like to begin the proposed series with a review of
Heyne's letters on German Literature, which afford excellent
opportunity for some preparatory hints. My plans are so
undecided for several coming months, that I cannot yet tell
whether I shall have the time and tranquillity needed to write
out the whole course, though much tempted by the promise of
perfect liberty. I could engage, however, to furnish at
least two articles on Novalis and Körner. I trust you will be
interested in my favorite Körner. Great is my love for both of
them. But I wish to write something which shall not only _be_
free from exaggeration, but which shall _seem_ so, to those
unacquainted with their works.

'I have so much reading to go through with this month, that
I have but few hours for correspondents. I have already
discussed five volumes in German, two in French, three in
English, and not without thought and examination.

'Tell--that I read "Titan" by myself, in the afternoons and
evenings of about three weeks. She need not be afraid to
undertake it. Difficulties of detail may, perhaps, not be
entirely conquered without a master or a good commentary, but
she could enjoy all that is most valuable alone. I should be
very unwilling to read it with a person of narrow or unrefined
mind; for it is a noble work, and fit to raise a reader into
that high serene of thought where pedants cannot enter.'

FAREWELL TO GROTON.