Chapter V: BOSTON, By R.W. Emerson (6)

'The place is beautiful, in its way, but its scenery is too
tamely smiling and sleeping. My associations with it are most
painful. There darkened round us the effects of my father's
ill-judged exchange,--ill-judged, so far at least as regarded
himself, mother, and me,--all violently rent from the habits
of our former life, and cast upon toils for which we were
unprepared: there my mother's health was impaired, and mine
destroyed; there my father died; there were undergone the
miserable perplexities of a family that has lost its head;
there I passed through the conflicts needed to give up all
which my heart had for years desired, and to tread a path
for which I had no skill, and no-call, except that it must be
trodden by some one, and I alone was ready. Wachuset and
the Peterboro' hills are blended in my memory with hours of
anguish as great as I am capable of suffering. I used to look
at them towering to the sky, and feel that I, too, from birth,
had longed to rise, and, though for the moment crushed, was
not subdued.

'But if those beautiful hills, and wide, rich fields, saw this
sad lore well learned, they also saw some precious lessons
given in faith, fortitude, self-command, and unselfish love.
There too, in solitude, the mind acquired more power of
concentration, and discerned the beauty of strict method;
there too, more than all, the heart was awakened to sympathize
with the ignorant, to pity the vulgar, to hope for the
seemingly worthless, and to commune with the Divine Spirit of
Creation, which cannot err, which never sleeps, which will
not permit evil to be permanent, nor its aim of beauty in the
smallest particular eventually to fail.'

WINTER IN BOSTON.

In the autumn of 1836 Margaret went to Boston, with the two-fold design of teaching Latin and French in Mr. Alcott's school, which was then highly prosperous, and of forming classes of young ladies in French, German, and Italian.

Her view of Mr. Alcott's plan of education was thus hinted in a journal, one day, after she had been talking with him, and trying to place herself in his mental position:--

_Mr. A._ 'O for the safe and natural way of Intuition! I
cannot grope like a mole in the gloomy passages of experience.
To the attentive spirit, the revelation contained in books
is only so far valuable as it comments upon, and corresponds
with, the universal revelation. Yet to me, a being social
and sympathetic by natural impulse, though recluse and
contemplative by training and philosophy, the character and
life of Jesus have spoken more forcibly than any fact recorded
in human history. This story of incarnate Love has given me
the key to all mysteries, and showed me what path should be
taken in returning to the Fountain of Spirit. Seeing that
other redeemers have imperfectly fulfilled their tasks, I
have sought a new way. They all, it seemed to me, had tried
to influence the human being at too late a day, and had laid
their plans too wide. They began with men; I will begin
with babes. They began with the world; I will begin with the
family. So I preach the Gospel of the Nineteenth Century.'

_M_. 'But, preacher, you make _three_ mistakes.

'You do not understand the nature of Genius or creative power.

'You do not understand the reaction of matter on spirit.

'You are too impatient of the complex; and, not enjoying
variety in unity, you become lost in abstractions, and cannot
illustrate your principles.'

On the other hand, Mr. Alcott's impressions of Margaret were thus noted in his diaries:--

"She is clearly a person given to the boldest speculation, and
of liberal and varied acquirements. Not wanting in imaginative
power, she has the rarest good sense and discretion. She
adopts the Spiritual Philosophy, and has the subtlest
perception of its bearings. She takes large and generous views
of all subjects, and her disposition is singularly catholic.
The blending of sentiment and of wisdom in her is most
remarkable; and her taste is as fine as her prudence. I think
her the most brilliant talker of the day. She has a quick
and comprehensive wit, a firm command of her thoughts, and a
speech to win the ear of the most cultivated."

In her own classes Margaret was very successful, and thus in a letter sums up the results:--

'I am still quite unwell, and all my pursuits and propensities
have a tendency to make my head worse. It is but a bad
head,--as bad as if I were a great man! I am not entitled to
so bad a head by anything I have done; but I flatter myself it
is very interesting to suffer so much, and a fair excuse for
not writing pretty letters, and saying to my friends the good
things I think about them.

'I was so desirous of doing all I could, that I took a great
deal more upon myself than I was able to bear. Yet now that
the twenty-five weeks of incessant toil are over, I rejoice in
it all, and would not have done an iota less. I have fulfilled
all my engagements faithfully; have acquired more power of
attention, self-command, and fortitude; have acted in life as
I thought I would in my lonely meditations; and have gained
some knowledge of means. Above all,--blessed be the Father
of our spirits!--my aims are the same as they were in the
happiest flight of youthful fancy. I have learned too, at
last, to rejoice in all past pain, and to see that my spirit
has been judiciously tempered for its work. In future I may
sorrow, but can I ever despair?

'The beginning of the winter was forlorn. I was always ill;
and often thought I might not live, though the work was but
just begun. The usual disappointments, too, were about me.
Those from whom aid was expected failed, and others who aided
did not understand my aims. Enthusiasm for the things loved
best fled when I seemed to be buying and selling them. I
could not get the proper point of view, and could not keep a
healthful state of mind. Mysteriously a gulf seemed to have
opened between me and most intimate friends, and for the
first time for many years I was entirely, absolutely, alone.
Finally, my own character and designs lost all romantic
interest, and I felt vulgarized, profaned, forsaken,--though
obliged to smile brightly and talk wisely all the while. But
these clouds at length passed away.

'And now let me try to tell you what has been done. To one
class I taught the German language, and thought it good
success, when, at the end of three months, they could read
twenty pages of German at a lesson, and very well. This
class, of course, was not interesting, except in the way of
observation and analysis of language.

'With more advanced pupils I read, in twenty-four weeks,
Schiller's Don Carlos, Artists, and Song of the Bell, besides
giving a sort of general lecture on Schiller; Goethe's Hermann
and Dorothea, Goetz von Berlichingen, Iphigenia, first part of
Faust,--three weeks of thorough study this, as valuable to me
as to them,--and Clavigo,--thus comprehending samples of
all his efforts in poetry, and bringing forward some of his
prominent opinions; Lessing's Nathan, Minna, Emilia Galeotti;
parts of Tieck's Phantasus, and nearly the whole first volume
of Richter's Titan.

'With the Italian class, I read parts of Tasso, Petrarch--whom
they came to almost adore,--Ariosto, Alfieri, and the whole
hundred cantos of the Divina Commedia, with the aid of the
fine Athenæum copy, Flaxman's designs, and all the best
commentaries. This last piece of work was and will be truly
valuable to myself.

'I had, besides, three private pupils, Mrs. ----, who became
very attractive to me, ----, and little ----, who had not
the use of his eyes. I taught him Latin orally, and read
the History of England and Shakspeare's historical plays in
connection. This lesson was given every day for ten weeks, and
was very interesting, though very fatiguing. The labor in Mr.
Alcott's school was also quite exhausting. I, however, loved
the children, and had many valuable thoughts suggested, and
Mr. A.'s society was much to me.

'As you may imagine, the Life of Goethe is not yet written;
but I have studied and thought about it much. It grows in
my mind with everything that does grow there. My friends in
Europe have sent me the needed books on the subject, and I
am now beginning to work in good earnest. It is very possible
that the task may be taken from me by somebody in England, or
that in doing it I may find myself incompetent; but I go on in
hope, secure, at all events, that it will be the means of the
highest culture.'

In addition to other labors, Margaret translated, one evening every week, German authors into English, for the gratification of Dr. Channing; their chief reading being in De Wette and Herder.

'It was not very pleasant,' she writes, 'for Dr. C. takes in
subjects more deliberately than is conceivable to us feminine
people, with our habits of ducking, diving, or flying for
truth. Doubtless, however, he makes better use of what he
gets, and if his sympathies were livelier he would not view
certain truths in so steady a light. But there is much more
talking than reading; and I like talking with him. I do not
feel that constraint which some persons complain of, but
am perfectly free, though less called out than by other
intellects of inferior power. I get too much food for thought
from him, and am not bound to any tiresome formality of
respect on account of his age and rank in the world of
intellect. He seems desirous to meet even one young and
obscure as myself on equal terms, and trusts to the elevation
of his thoughts to keep him in his place.'

She found higher satisfaction still in his preaching:--

'A discourse from Dr. C. on the spirituality of man's nature.
This was delightful! I came away in the most happy, hopeful,
and heroic mood. The tone of the discourse was so dignified,
his manner was so benignant and solemnly earnest, in his voice
there was such a concentration of all his force, physical and
moral, to give utterance to divine truth, that I felt purged
as by fire. If some speakers feed intellect more, Dr. C. feeds
the whole spirit. O for a more calm, more pervading faith
in the divinity of my own nature! I am so far from being
thoroughly tempered and seasoned, and am sometimes so
presumptuous, at others so depressed. Why cannot I lay more to
heart the text, "God is never in a hurry: let man be patient
and confident"?

PROVIDENCE.

In the spring of 1837, Margaret received a very favorable offer to become a principal teacher in the Greene Street School, at Providence, R.I.

'The proposal is, that I shall teach the elder girls my
favorite branches, for four hours a day,--choosing my own
hours, and arranging the course,--for a thousand dollars a
year, if, upon trial, I am well enough pleased to stay. This
would be independence, and would enable me to do many slight
services for my family. But, on the other hand, I am not sure
that I shall like the situation, and am sanguine that, by
perseverance, the plan of classes in Boston might be carried
into full effect. Moreover, Mr. Ripley,--who is about
publishing a series of works on Foreign Literature,--has
invited me to prepare the "Life of Goethe," on very
advantageous terms. This I should much prefer. Yet when the
thousand petty difficulties which surround us are considered,
it seems unwise to relinquish immediate independence.'

She accepted, therefore, the offer which promised certain means of aiding her family, and reluctantly gave up the precarious, though congenial, literary project.

SCHOOL EXPERIENCES.

'The new institution of which I am to be "Lady Superior" was
dedicated last Saturday. People talk to me of the good I am to
do; but the last fortnight has been so occupied in the task of
arranging many scholars of various ages and unequal training,
that I cannot yet realize this new era. * *

'The gulf is vast, wider than I could have conceived possible,
between me and my pupils; but the sight of such deplorable
ignorance, such absolute burial of the best powers, as I find
in some instances, makes me comprehend, better than before,
how such a man as Mr. Alcott could devote his life to renovate
elementary education. I have pleasant feelings when I see that
a new world has already been opened to them. * *

'Nothing of the vulgar feeling towards teachers, too often to
be observed in schools, exists towards me. The pupils seem
to reverence my tastes and opinions in all things; they are
docile, decorous, and try hard to please; they are in awe of
my displeasure, but delighted whenever permitted to associate
with me on familiar terms. As I treat them like ladies, they
are anxious to prove that they deserve to be so treated. * *

'There is room here for a great move in the cause of
education, and if I could resolve on devoting five or six
years to this school, a good work might, doubtless, be
done. Plans are becoming complete in my mind, ways and means
continually offer, and, so far as I have tried them, they
succeed. I am left almost as much at liberty as if no other
person was concerned. Some sixty scholars are more or less
under my care, and many of them begin to walk in the new paths
pointed out. General activity of mind, accuracy in processes,
constant looking for principles, and search after the good and
the beautiful, are the habits I strive to develop. * *

'I will write a short record of the last day at school. For
a week past I have given the classes in philosophy, rhetoric,
history, poetry, and moral science, short lectures on the true
objects of study, with advice as to their future course; and
to-day, after recitation, I expressed my gratification that
the minds of so many had been opened to the love of good and
beauty.

'Then came the time for last words. First, I called into the
recitation room the boys who had been under my care. They are
nearly all interesting, and have showed a chivalric feeling in
their treatment of me. People talk of women not being able to
govern boys; but I have always found it a very easy task.
He must be a coarse boy, indeed, who, when addressed in a
resolute, yet gentle manner, by a lady, will not try to merit
her esteem. These boys have always rivalled one another in
respectful behavior. I spoke a few appropriate words to each,
mentioning his peculiar errors and good deeds, mingling some
advice with more love, which will, I hope, make it remembered.
We took a sweet farewell. With the younger girls I had a
similar interview.'

'Then I summoned the elder girls, who have been my especial
charge. I reminded them of the ignorance in which some of them
were found, and showed them how all my efforts had necessarily
been directed to stimulating their minds,--leaving undone
much which, under other circumstances, would have been deemed
indispensable. I thanked them for the favorable opinion of
my government which they had so generally expressed, but
specified three instances in which I had been unjust. I
thanked them, also, for the moral beauty of their conduct,
bore witness that an appeal to conscience had never failed,
and told them of my happiness in having the faith thus
confirmed, that young persons can be best guided by addressing
their highest nature. I declared my consciousness of having
combined, not only in speech but in heart, tolerance and
delicate regard for the convictions of their parents, with
fidelity to my own, frankly uttered. I assured them of my true
friendship, proved by my never having cajoled or caressed
them into good. Every word of praise had been earned; all
my influence over them was rooted in reality; I had never
softened nor palliated their faults; I had appealed, not to
their weakness, but to their strength; I had offered to them,
always, the loftiest motives, and had made every other end
subordinate to that of spiritual growth. With a heartfelt
blessing, I dismissed them; but none stirred, and we all sat
for some moments, weeping. Then I went round the circle and
bade each, separately, farewell.'

PERSONS.

Margaret's Providence journals are made extremely piquant and entertaining, by her life-like portraiture of people and events; and every page attests the scrupulous justice with which she sought to penetrate through surfaces to reality, and, forgetting personal prejudices, to apply universally the test of truth. A few sketches of public characters may suffice to show with what sagacious, all-observing eyes, she looked about her.

'At the whig caucus, I heard TRISTAM BURGESS,--"The old
bald Eagle!" His baldness increases the fine effect of his
appearance, for it seems as if the locks had retreated, that
the contour of his very strongly marked head might be revealed
to every eye. His _personnel_, as well as I could see, was
fitted to command respect rather than admiration. He is a
venerable, not a beautiful old man.

'He is a rhetorician,--if I could judge from this sample;
style in woven and somewhat ornate, matter frequently wrought
up to a climax, manner rather declamatory, though strictly
that of a gentleman and a scholar. One art in his oratory
was, no doubt, very effective, before he lost force and
distinctness of voice. I allude to his way,--after
having reasoned a while, till he has reached the desired
conclusion,--of leaning forward, with hands reposing but
figure very earnest, and communicating, confidentially as it
were, the result to the audience. The impression produced
in former days, when those low, emphatic passages could be
distinctly heard, must have been very strong. Yet there is too
much apparent trickery in this, to bear frequent repetition.
His manner is well adapted for argument, and for the
expression either of satire or of chivalric sentiment.'

* * * * *

'Mr. JOHN NEAL addressed my girls on the destiny and vocation
of Woman in this country. He gave, truly, a _manly_ view,
though not the view of common men, and it was pleasing to
watch his countenance, where energy is animated by genius. He
then spoke to the boys, in the most noble and liberal spirit,
on the exercise of political rights. If there is one among
them who has the germ of a truly independent man, too generous
to become a party tool, and with soul enough to think, as well
as feel, for himself, those words were not spoken in vain. He
was warmed up into giving a sketch of his boyhood. It was
an eloquent narrative, and is ineffaceably impressed on my
memory, with every look and gesture of the speaker. What gave
chief charm to this history was its fearless ingenuousness. It
was delightful to note the impression produced by his magnetic
genius and independent character.

'In the evening we had a long conversation upon Woman,
Whigism, modern English Poets, Shakspeare,--and, in
particular, Richard the Third,--about which we had actually
a fight. Mr. Neal does not argue quite fairly, for he uses
reason while it lasts, and then helps himself out with wit,
sentiment and assertion. I should quarrel with his definitions
upon almost every subject, but his fervid eloquence,
brilliancy, endless resource, and ready tact, give him great
advantage. There was a sort of exaggeration and coxcombry in
his talk; but his lion-heart, and keen sense of the ludicrous,
alike in himself as in others, redeem them. I should not like
to have my motives scrutinized as he would scrutinize them,
for I prefer rather to disclose them myself than to be found
out; but I was dissatisfied in parting from this remarkable
man before having seen him more thoroughly.

* * * * *

'Mr. WHIPPLE addressed the meeting at length. His presence is
not imposing, though his face is intellectual. It is difficult
to look at him, for you cannot be taken prisoner by his
eye, while, _en revanche_, he can look at you as long as he
pleases; and, as usual, with one who can get the better of his
auditors, he does not call out the best in them. His gestures
are remarkably fine, free, graceful, and expressive. He has
no natural advantages of voice,--for it is without compass,
depth, sweetness,--and has none of the winning tones which
reach the inmost soul, and none of the tones of passionate
energy, which raise you out of your own world into the
speaker's. But his modulation is smooth, measured, dignified,
though occasionally injured by too elaborate a swell, and his
enunciation is admirable.

'His theme was one which has been so thoroughly discussed
that novelty was not to be looked for; but his method and
arrangement were excellent, though parts were too much
expanded, and the whole might well have been condensed. There
were many felicitous popular hits. The humorous touches were
skilful, and the illustrations on a broad scale good, though
in single images he failed. Altogether, there was a pervading
air of ease and mastery, which showed him fit to be a leader
of the flock. Though not a man of the Webster class, he is
among the first of the second class of men who apply their
powers to practical purposes,--and that is saying much.'

* * * * *

'I went to hear JOSEPH JOHN GURNEY, one of the most
distinguished and influential, it is said, of the English
Quakers. He is a thick-set, beetle-browed man, with a
well-to-do-in-the-world air of pious stolidity. I was
grievously disappointed; for Quakerism has at times looked
lovely to me, and I had expected at least a spiritual
exposition of its doctrines from the brother of Mrs. Fry. But
his manner was as wooden as his matter, and had no merit but
that of distinct elocution. His sermon was a tissue of texts,
illy selected, and worse patched together, in proof of the
assertion that a belief in the Trinity is the one thing
needful, and that reason, unless manacled by a creed, is the
one thing dangerous. His figures were paltry, his thoughts
narrowed down, and his very sincerity made corrupt by
spiritual pride. One could not but pity his notions of the
Holy Ghost, and his bat-like fear of light. His Man-God seemed
to be the keeper of a mad-house, rather than the informing
Spirit of all spirits. After finishing his discourse, Mr. G.
sang a prayer, in a tone of mingled shout and whine, and then
requested his audience to sit a while in devout meditation.
For one, I passed the interval in praying for him, that the
thick film of self-complacency might be removed from the eyes
of his spirit, so that he might no more degrade religion.'

* * * * *

'Mr. HAGUE is of the Baptist persuasion, and is very popular
with his own sect. He is small, and carries his head erect;
he has a high and intellectual, though not majestic,
forehead; his brows are lowering and, when knit in indignant
denunciation, give a thunderous look to the countenance, and
beneath them flash, sparkle, and flame,--for all that may be
said of light in rapid motion is true of them,--his dark eyes.
Hazel and blue eyes with their purity, steadfastness, subtle
penetration and radiant hope, may persuade and win, but
black is the color to command. His mouth has an equivocal
expression, but as an orator perhaps he gains power by the air
of mystery this gives.

'He has a very active intellect, sagacity and elevated
sentiment; and, feeling strongly that God is love, can never
preach without earnestness. His power comes first from his
glowing vitality of temperament. While speaking, his every
muscle is in action, and all his action is towards one object.
There is perfect _abandon_. He is permeated, overborne, by
his thought. This lends a charm above grace, though incessant
nervousness and heat injure his manner. He is never violent,
though often vehement; pleading tones in his voice redeem him
from coarseness, even when most eager; and he throws himself
into the hearts of his hearers, not in weak need of sympathy,
but in the confidence of generous emotion. His second
attraction is his individuality. He speaks direct from the
conviction of his spirit, without temporizing, or artificial
method. His is the "unpremeditated art," and therefore
successful. He is full of intellectual life; his mind has not
been fettered by dogmas, and the worship of beauty finds
a place there. I am much interested in this truly animated
being.'

* * * * *

'Mr. R.H. DANA has been giving us readings in the English
dramatists, beginning with Shakspeare. The introductory was
beautiful. After assigning to literature its high place in
the education of the human soul, he announced his own view
in giving these readings: that he should never pander to a
popular love of excitement, but quietly, without regard to
brilliancy or effect, would tell what had struck him in
these poets; that he had no belief in artificial processes
of acquisition or communication, and having never learned
anything except through love, he had no hope of teaching any
but loving spirits, &c. All this was arrayed in a garb of
most delicate grace; but a man of such genuine refinement
undervalues the cannon-blasts and rockets which are needed
to rouse the attention of the vulgar. His naïve gestures,
the rapt expression of his face, his introverted eye, and the
almost childlike simplicity of his pathos, carry one back into
a purer atmosphere, to live over again youth's fresh emotions.
I greatly enjoyed his readings in Hamlet, and have reviewed
in connection what Goethe and Coleridge have said. Both have
successfully seized on the main points in the character of
Hamlet, and Mr. D. took nearly the same range. His views of
Ophelia, however, are unspeakably more just than are those of
Serlo in Wilhelm Meister. I regret that the whole course is
not to be on Shakspeare, for I should like to read with him
all the plays.

'I never have met with a person of finer perceptions. He
leaves out nothing; though he over-refines on some passages.
He has the most exquisite taste, and freshens the souls of his
hearers with ever new beauty. He is greatly indebted to the
delicacy of his physical organization for the delicacy of his
mental appreciation. But when he has told you what _he_
likes, the pleasure of intercourse is over: for he is a man of
prejudice more than of reason, and though he can make a lively
_exposé_ of his thoughts and feelings, he does not justify
them. In a word, Mr. Dana has the charms and the defects
of one whose object in life has been to preserve his
individuality unprofaned.'

ART.

While residing at Providence, and during her visits to Boston, in her vacations, Margaret's mind was opening more and more to the charms of art.

'The Ton-Kunst, the Ton-Welt, give me now more stimulus than
the written Word; for music seems to contain everything in
nature, unfolded into perfect harmony. In it the _all_ and
_each_ are manifested in most rapid transition; the spiral and
undulatory movement of beautiful creation is felt throughout,
and, as we listen, thought is most clearly, because most
mystically, perceived. * *

'I have been to hear Neukomm's Oratorio of David. It is to
music what Barry Cornwall's verses and Talfourd's Ion are
to poetry. It is completely modern, and befits an age of
consciousness. Nothing can be better arranged as a drama; the
parts are in excellent gradation, the choruses are grand and
effective, the composition, as a whole, brilliantly imposing.
Yet it was dictated by taste and science only. Where are the
enrapturing visions from the celestial world which shone down
upon Haydn and Mozart; where the revelations from the depths
of man's nature, which impart such passion to the symphonies
of Beethoven; where, even, the fascinating fairy land, gay
with delight, of Rossini? O, Genius! none but thee shall
make our hearts and heads throb, our cheeks crimson, our
eyes overflow, or fill our whole being with the serene joy of
faith.' * *

'I went to see Vandenhoff twice, in Brutus and Virginius.
Another fine specimen of the conscious school; no inspiration,
yet much taste. Spite of the thread-paper Tituses, the
chambermaid Virginias, the washerwoman Tullias, and the
people, made up of half a dozen chimney-sweeps, in carters'
frocks and red nightcaps, this man had power to recall a
thought of the old stately Roman, with his unity of will and
deed. He was an admirable _father_, that fairest, noblest
part,--with a happy mixture of dignity and tenderness,
blending the delicate sympathy of the companion with the calm,
wisdom of the teacher, and showing beneath the zone of duty
a heart that has not forgot to throb with youthful love. This
character,--which did actual fathers know how to be, they
would fulfil the order of nature, and image Deity to their
children,--Vandenhoff represented sufficiently, at least, to
call up the beautiful ideal.'

FANNY KEMBLE.

'When in Boston, I saw the Kembles twice,--in "Much ado about
Nothing," and "The Stranger." The first night I felt much
disappointed in Miss K. In the gay parts a coquettish, courtly
manner marred the wild mirth and wanton wit of Beatrice. Yet,
in everything else, I liked her conception of the part; and
where she urges Benedict to fight with Claudio, and where she
reads Benedict's sonnet, she was admirable. But I received no
more pleasure from Miss K.'s acting out the part than I have
done in reading it, and this disappointed me. Neither did
I laugh, but thought all the while of Miss K.,--how very
graceful she was, and whether this and that way of rendering
the part was just. I do not believe she has comic power within
herself, though tasteful enough to comprehend any part. So
I went home, vexed because my "heart was not full," and my
"brain not on fire" with enthusiasm. I drank my milk, and went
to sleep, as on other dreary occasions, and dreamed not of
Miss Kemble.

'Next night, however, I went expectant, and all my soul was
satisfied. I saw her at a favorable distance, and she looked
beautiful. And as the scene rose in interest, her attitudes,
her gestures, had the expression which an Angelo could give
to sculpture. After she tells her story,--and I was almost
suffocated by the effort she made to divulge her sin and
fall,--she sunk to the earth, her head bowed upon her knee,
her white drapery falling in large, graceful folds about this
broken piece of beautiful humanity, _crushed_ in the very
manner so well described by Scott when speaking of a far
different person, "not as one who intentionally stoops,
kneels, or prostrates himself to excite compassion, but like a
man borne down on all sides by the pressure of some invisible
force, which crushes him to the earth without power of
resistance." A movement of abhorrence from me, as her
insipid confidante turned away, attested the triumph of the
poet-actress. Had not all been over in a moment, I believe
I could not have refrained from rushing forward to raise the
fair frail being, who seemed so prematurely humbled in her
parent dust. I burst into tears; and, with the stifled,
hopeless feeling of a real sorrow, continued to weep till the
very end; nor could I recover till I left the house.

'That is genius, which could give such life to this play; for,
if I may judge from other parts, it is defaced by inflated
sentiments, and verified by few natural touches. I wish I had
it to read, for I should like to recall her every tone and
look.'

* * * * *

'I have been studying Flaxman and Retzsch. How pure, how
immortal, the language of Form! Fools cannot fancy they
fathom its meaning; witless _dillettanti_ cannot degrade it by
hackneyed usage; none but genius can create or reproduce it.
Unlike the colorist, he who expresses his thought in form is
secure as man can be against the ravages of time.'

* * * * *

'I went to the Athenæum in an agonizing conflict of mind, when
some high influence was needed to rouse me from the state
of sickly sensitiveness, which, much as I despise, I cannot
wholly conquer. How soothing it was to feel the blessed power
of the Ideal world, to be surrounded, once more with the
records of lives poured out in embodying thought in beauty!
I seemed to breathe my native atmosphere, and smoothed my
ruffled pinions.'

* * * * *

'No wonder God made a world to express his thought. Who, that
has a soul for beauty, does not feel the need of creating, and
that the power of creation alone can satisfy the spirit? When
I thus reflect, the Artist seems the only fortunate man. Had I
but as much creative genius as I have apprehensiveness!'

* * * * *

'How transcendently lovely was the face of one young angel by
Raphael! It was the perfection of physical, moral, and mental
life. Variegated wings, of pinkish-purple touched with green,
like the breasts of doves, and in perfect harmony with the
complexion, spring from the shoulders upwards, and against
them leans the divine head. The eye seems fixed on the centre
of being, and the lips are gently parted, as if uttering
strains of celestial melody.'

* * * * *

'The head of Aspasia was instinct with the voluptuousness of
intellect. From the eyes, the cheek, the divine lip, one might
hive honey. Both the Loves were exquisite: one, that zephyr
sentiment which visits all the roses of life; the other, the
Amore Greco, may be fitly described in these words of Landor:
"There is a gloom in deep love, as in deep water; there is a
silence in it which suspends the foot, and the folded arms and
the dejected head are the images it reflects. No voice shakes
its surface; the Muses themselves approach it with a tardy and
a timid step, with a low and tremulous and melancholy song."'

* * * * *

'The Sibyl I understood. What grace in that beautiful oval!
what apprehensiveness in the eye! Such is female Genius; it
alone understands the God. The Muses only sang the praises of
Apollo; the Sibyls interpreted his will. Nay, she to whom it
was offered, refused the divine union, and preferred remaining
a satellite to being absorbed into the sun. You read in the
eye of this one, and the observation is confirmed by the
low forehead, that the secret of her inspiration lay in the
passionate enthusiasm of her nature, rather than in the ideal
perfection of any faculty.

* * * * *

'A Christ, by Raphael, that I saw the other night, brought
Christianity more home to my heart, made me more long to
be like Jesus, than ever did sermon. It is from one of the
Vatican frescoes. The Deity,--a stern, strong, wise man, of
about forty-five, in a square velvet cap, truly the Jewish
God, inflexibly just, yet jealous and wrathful,--is at the
top of the picture, looking with a gaze of almost frowning
scrutiny down into his world. A step below is the Son.
Stately angelic shapes kneel near him in dignified
adoration,--brothers, but not peers. A cloud of more ecstatic
seraphs floats behind the Father. At the feet of the Son is
the Holy Ghost, the Heavenly Dove. In the description, by a
connoisseur, of this picture, read to me while I was looking
at it, it is spoken of as in Raphael's first manner, cold,
hard, trammeled. But to me how did that face proclaim the
Infinite Love! His head is bent back, as if seeking to
behold the Father. His attitude expresses the need of adoring
something higher, in order to keep him at his highest. What
sweetness, what purity, in the eyes! I can never express it;
but I felt, when looking at it, the beauty of reverence, of
self-sacrifice, to a degree that stripped the Apollo of his
beams.'

MAGNANIMITY.

Immediately after reading Miss Martineau's book on America, Margaret felt bound in honor to write her a letter, the magnanimity of which is brought out in full relief, by contrast with the expressions already given of her affectionate regard. Extracts from this letter, recorded in her journals, come here rightfully in place:--

'On its first appearance, the book was greeted by a volley
of coarse and outrageous abuse, and the nine days' wonder
was followed by a nine days' hue-and-cry. It was garbled,
misrepresented, scandalously ill-treated. This was all of
no consequence. The opinion of the majority you will find
expressed in a late number of the North American Review. I
should think the article, though ungenerous, not more so than
great part of the critiques upon your book.

'The minority may be divided into two classes: The one,
consisting of those who knew you but slightly, either
personally, or in your writings. These have now read your
book; and, seeing in it your high ideal standard, genuine
independence, noble tone of sentiment, vigor of mind and
powers of picturesque description, they value your book very
much, and rate you higher for it.

'The other comprises those who were previously aware of these
high qualities,--and who, seeing in a book to which they
had looked for a lasting monument to your fame, a degree
of presumptuousness, irreverence, inaccuracy, hasty
generalization, and ultraism on many points, which they did
not expect, lament the haste in which you have written, and
the injustice which you have consequently done to so important
a task, and to your own powers of being and doing. To this
class I belong.

'I got the book as soon as it came out,--long before I
received the copy endeared by your handwriting,--and
devoted myself to reading it. I gave myself up to my natural
impressions, without seeking to ascertain those of others.
Frequently I felt pleasure and admiration, but more frequently
disappointment, sometimes positive distaste.

'There are many topics treated of in this book of which I am
not a judge; but I do pretend, even where I cannot criticize
in detail, to have an opinion as to the general tone of
thought. When Herschel writes his Introduction to Natural
Philosophy, I cannot test all he says, but I cannot err about
his fairness, his manliness, and wide range of knowledge. When
Jouffroy writes his lectures, I am not conversant with all his
topics of thought, but I can appreciate his lucid style and
admirable method. When Webster speaks on the currency, I do
not understand the subject, but I do understand his mode of
treating it, and can see what a blaze of light streams from
his torch. When Harriet Martineau writes about America, I
often cannot test that rashness and inaccuracy of which I hear
so much, but I can feel that they exist. A want of soundness,
of habits of patient investigation, of completeness, of
arrangement, are felt throughout the book; and, for all
its fine descriptions of scenery, breadth of reasoning, and
generous daring, I cannot be happy in it, because it is not
worthy of my friend, and I think a few months given to ripen
it, to balance, compare, and mellow, would have made it so. * *

'Certainly you show no spirit of harshness towards this
country in general. I think your tone most kindly. But many
passages are deformed by intemperance of epithet. * * Would
your heart, could you but investigate the matter, approve such
overstatement, such a crude, intemperate tirade as you have
been guilty of about Mr. Alcott,--a true and noble man,
a philanthropist, whom a true and noble woman, also a
philanthropist, should have delighted to honor; whose
disinterested and resolute efforts, for the redemption of poor
humanity, all independent and faithful minds should sustain,
since the "broadcloth" vulgar will be sure to assail them; a
philosopher, worthy of the palmy times of ancient Greece;
a man whom Carlyle and Berkely, whom you so uphold, would
delight to honor; a man whom the worldlings of Boston hold
in as much horror as the worldlings of ancient Athens did
Socrates. They smile to hear their verdict confirmed from
the other side of the Atlantic, by their censor, Harriet
Martineau.

'I do not like that your book should be an abolition book. You
might have borne your testimony as decidedly as you pleased;
but why leaven the whole book with it? This subject haunts us
on almost every page. It _is_ a great subject, but your book
had other purposes to fulfil.

'I have thought it right to say all this to you, since I felt
it. I have shrunk from the effort, for I fear that I must
lose you. Not that I think all authors are like Gil Bias'
archbishop. No; if your heart turns from me, I shall still
love you, still think you noble. I know it must be so trying
to fail of sympathy, at such a time, where we expect it. And,
besides, I felt from the book that the sympathy between us is
less general than I had supposed, it was so strong on several
points. It is strong enough for me to love you ever, and I
could no more have been happy in your friendship, if I had not
spoken out now.'

SPIRITUAL LIFE.

'You question me as to the nature of the benefits conferred
upon me by Mr. E.'s preaching. I answer, that his influence
has been more beneficial to me than that of any American, and
that from him I first learned what is meant by an inward life.
Many other springs have since fed the stream of living waters,
but he first opened the fountain. That the "mind is its own
place," was a dead phrase to me, till he cast light upon
my mind. Several of his sermons stand apart in memory, like
landmarks of my spiritual history. It would take a volume to
tell what this one influence did for me. But perhaps I shall
some time see that it was best for me to be forced to help
myself.'

* * * * *

'Some remarks which I made last night trouble me, and I cannot
fix my attention upon other things till I have qualified them.
I suffered myself to speak in too unmeasured terms, and my
expressions were fitted to bring into discredit the religious
instruction which has been given me, or which I have sought.

'I do not think "all men are born for the purpose of unfolding
beautiful ideas;" for the vocation of many is evidently the
culture of affections by deeds of kindness. But I do think
that the vocations of men and women differ, and that those who
are forced to act out of their sphere are shorn of inward and
outward brightness.

'For myself, I wish to say, that, if I am in a mood of
darkness and despondency, I nevertheless consider such a mood
unworthy of a Christian, or indeed of any one who believes in
the immortality of the soul. No one, who had steady faith
in this and in the goodness of God, could be otherwise than
cheerful. I reverence the serenity of a truly religious mind
so much, that I think, if I live, I may some time attain to
it.

'Although I do not believe in a Special Providence regulating
outward events, and could not reconcile such a belief with
what I have seen of life, I do not the less believe in the
paternal government of a Deity. That He should visit the souls
of those who seek Him seems to me the nobler way to conceive
of his influence. And if there were not some error in my way
of seeking, I do not believe I should suffer from languor or
deadness on spiritual subjects, at the time when I have most
need to feel myself at home there. To find this error is my
earnest wish; and perhaps I am now travelling to that end,
though by a thorny road. It is a mortification to find so
much yet to do; for at one time the scheme of things seemed
so clear, that, with Cromwell, I might say, "I was once in
grace." With my mind I prize high objects as much as then:
it is my heart which is cold. And sometimes I fear that the
necessity of urging them on those under my care dulls my sense
of their beauty. It is so hard to prevent one's feelings from
evaporating in words.'

* * * * *

'"The faint sickness of a wounded heart." How frequently
do these words of Beckford recur to my mind! His prayer,
imperfect as it is, says more to me than many a purer
aspiration. It breathes such an experience of impassioned
anguish. He had everything,--health, personal advantages,
almost boundless wealth, genius, exquisite taste, culture; he
could, in some way, express his whole being. Yet well-nigh he
sank beneath the sickness of the wounded heart; and solitude,
"country of the unhappy," was all he craved at last.

'Goethe, too, says he has known, in all his active, wise, and
honored life, no four weeks of happiness. This teaches me on
the other side; for, like Goethe, I have never given way to
my feelings, but have lived active, thoughtful, seeking to
be wise. Yet I have long days and weeks of heartache; and
at those times, though I am busy every moment, and cultivate
every pleasant feeling, and look always upwards to the pure
ideal region, yet this ache is like a bodily wound, whose
pain haunts even when it is not attended to, and disturbs the
dreams of the patient who has fallen asleep from exhaustion.

'There is a German in Boston, who has a wound in his breast,
received in battle long ago. It never troubles him, except
when he sings, and then, if he gives out his voice with much
expression, it opens, and cannot, for a long time, be stanched
again. So with me: when I rise into one of those rapturous
moods of thought, such as I had a day or two since, my wound
opens again, and all I can do is to be patient, and let it
take its own time to skin over. I see it will never do more.
Some time ago I thought the barb was fairly out; but no, the
fragments rankle there still, and will, while there is any
earth attached to my spirit. Is it not because, in my pride, I
held the mantle close, and let the weapon, which some friendly
physician might have extracted, splinter in the wound?'

* * * * *

'_Sunday, July_, 1838.--I partook, for the first time, of the
Lord's Supper. I had often wished to do so, but had not been
able to find a clergyman,--from whom I could be willing to
receive it,--willing to admit me on my own terms. Mr. H----
did so; and I shall ever respect and value him, if only for
the liberality he displayed on this occasion. It was the
Sunday after the death of his wife, a lady whom I truly
honored, and should, probably, had we known one another
longer, have also loved. She was the soul of truth and honor;
her mind was strong, her reverence for the noble and beautiful
fervent, her energy in promoting the best interests of those
who came under her influence unusual. She was as full of wit
and playfulness as of goodness. Her union with her husband
was really one of mind and heart, of mutual respect and
tenderness; likeness in unlikeness made it strong. I wished
particularly to share in this rite on an occasion so suited to
bring out its due significance.'

FAREWELL TO SUMMER.

'The Sun, the Moon, the Waters, and the Air,
The hopeful, holy, terrible, and fair,
All that is ever speaking, never spoken,
Spells that are ever breaking, never broken,
Have played upon my soul; and every string
Confessed the touch, which once could make it ring
Celestial notes. And still, though changed the tone,
Though damp and jarring fall the lyre hath known
It would, if fitly played, its deep notes wove
Into one tissue of belief and love,
Yield melodies for angel audience meet,
And pæans fit Creative Power to greet.
O injured lyre! thy golden frame is marred,
No garlands deck thee, no libations poured
Tell to the earth the triumphs of thy song;
No princely halls echo thy strains along.
But still the strings are there; and, if they break,
Even in death rare melody will make,
Might'st thou once more be tuned, and power be given
To tell in numbers all thou canst of heaven!'

VISITS TO CONCORD.

BY R.W. EMERSON.

EXTRACT FROM A LETTER FROM MADAME ARCONATI TO R.W. EMERSON.

Je n'ai point rencontré, dans ma vie, de femme plus noble; ayant autant de sympathie pour ses semblables, et dont l'esprit fut plus vivifiant. Je me suis tout de suite sentie attirée par elle. Quand je fis sa connoissance, j'ignorais que ce fut une femme remarquable.

IV.

VISITS TO CONCORD.

* * * * *

I became acquainted with Margaret in 1835. Perhaps it was a year earlier that Henry Hedge, who had long been her friend, told me of her genius and studies, and loaned me her manuscript translation of Goethe's Tasso. I was afterwards still more interested in her, by the warm praises of Harriet Martineau, who had become acquainted with her at Cambridge, and who, finding Margaret's fancy for seeing me, took a generous interest in bringing us together. I remember, during a week in the winter of 1835-6, in which Miss Martineau was my guest, she returned again and again to the topic of Margaret's excelling genius and conversation, and enjoined it on me to seek her acquaintance: which I willingly promised. I am not sure that it was not in Miss Martineau's company, a little earlier, that I first saw her. And I find a memorandum, in her own journal, of a visit, made by my brother Charles and myself, to Miss Martineau, at Mrs. Farrar's. It was not, however, till the next July, after a little diplomatizing in billets by the ladies, that her first visit to our house was arranged, and she came to spend a fortnight with my wife. I still remember the first half-hour of Margaret's conversation. She was then twenty-six years old. She had a face and frame that would indicate fulness and tenacity of life. She was rather under the middle height; her complexion was fair, with strong fair hair. She was then, as always, carefully and becomingly dressed, and of ladylike self-possession. For the rest, her appearance had nothing prepossessing. Her extreme plainness,--a trick of incessantly opening and shutting her eyelids,--the nasal tone of her voice,--all repelled; and I said to myself, we shall never get far. It is to be said, that Margaret made a disagreeable first impression on most persons, including those who became afterwards her best friends, to such an extreme that they did not wish to be in the same room with her. This was partly the effect of her manners, which expressed an overweening sense of power, and slight esteem of others, and partly the prejudice of her fame. She had a dangerous reputation for satire, in addition to her great scholarship. The men thought she carried too many guns, and the women did not like one who despised them. I believe I fancied her too much interested in personal history; and her talk was a comedy in which dramatic justice was done to everybody's foibles. I remember that she made me laugh more than I liked; for I was, at that time, an eager scholar of ethics, and had tasted the sweets of solitude and stoicism, and I found something profane in the hours of amusing gossip into which she drew me, and, when I returned to my library, had much to think of the crackling of thorns under a pot. Margaret, who had stuffed me out as a philosopher, in her own fancy, was too intent on establishing a good footing between us, to omit any art of winning. She studied my tastes, piqued and amused me, challenged frankness by frankness, and did not conceal the good opinion of me she brought with her, nor her wish to please. She was curious to know my opinions and experiences. Of course, it was impossible long to hold out against such urgent assault. She had an incredible variety of anecdotes, and the readiest wit to give an absurd turn to whatever passed; and the eyes, which were so plain at first, soon swam with fun and drolleries, and the very tides of joy and superabundant life.