Chapter IX: HOMEWARD By W.H. Channing (2)

As, leaning on one arm, she poured out her stream of thought, turning now and then her eyes full upon me, to see whether I caught her meaning, there was leisure to study her thoroughly. Her temperament was predominantly what the physiologists would call nervous-sanguine; and the gray eye, rich brown hair and light complexion, with the muscular and well-developed frame, bespoke delicacy balanced by vigor. Here was a sensitive yet powerful being, fit at once for rapture or sustained effort, intensely active, prompt for adventure, firm for trial. She certainly had not beauty; yet the high arched dome of the head, the changeful expressiveness of every feature, and her whole air of mingled dignity and impulse, gave her a commanding charm. Especially characteristic were two physical traits. The first was a contraction of the eyelids almost to a point,--a trick caught from near-sightedness,--and then a sudden dilation, till the iris seemed to emit flashes;--an effect, no doubt, dependent on her highly-magnetized condition. The second was a singular pliancy of the vertebræ and muscles of the neck, enabling her by a mere movement to denote each varying emotion; in moments of tenderness, or pensive feeling, its curves were swan-like in grace, but when she was scornful or indignant it contracted, and made swift turns like that of a bird of prey. Finally, in the animation, yet _abandon_ of Margaret's attitude and look, were rarely blended the fiery force of northern, and the soft languor of southern races.

Meantime, as I was thus, through her physiognomy, tracing the outlines of her spiritual form, she was narrating chapters from the book of experience. How superficially, heretofore, had I known her! We had met chiefly as scholars. But now I saw before me one whose whole life had been a poem,--of boundless aspiration and hope almost wild in its daring,--of indomitable effort amidst poignant disappointment,--of widest range, yet persistent unity. Yes! here was a poet in deed, a true worshipper of Apollo, who had steadfastly striven to brighten and make glad existence, to harmonize all jarring and discordant strings, to fuse most hard conditions and cast them in a symmetric mould, to piece fragmentary fortunes into a mosaic symbol of heavenly order. Here was one, fond as a child of joy, eager as a native of the tropics for swift transition from luxurious rest to passionate excitement, prodigal to pour her mingled force of will, thought, sentiment, into the life of the moment, all radiant with imagination, longing for communion with artists of every age in their inspired hours, fitted by genius and culture to mingle as an equal in the most refined circles of Europe, and yet her youth and early womanhood had passed away amid the very decent, yet drudging, descendants of the prim Puritans. Trained among those who could have discerned her peculiar power, and early fed with the fruits of beauty for which her spirit pined, she would have developed into one of the finest lyrists, romancers and critics, that the modern literary world has seen. This she knew; and this tantalization of her fate she keenly felt.

But the tragedy of Margaret's history was deeper yet. Behind the poet was the woman,--the fond and relying, the heroic and disinterested woman. The very glow of her poetic enthusiasm was but an outflush of trustful affection; the very restlessness of her intellect was the confession that her heart had found no home. A "book-worm," "a dilettante," "a pedant," I had heard her sneeringly called; but now it was evident that her seeming insensibility was virgin pride, and her absorption in study the natural vent of emotions, which had met no object worthy of life-long attachment. At once, many of her peculiarities became intelligible. Fitfulness, unlooked-for changes of mood, misconceptions of words and actions, substitution of fancy for fact,--which had annoyed me during the previous season, as inconsistent in a person of such capacious judgment and sustained self-government,--were now referred to the morbid influence of affections pent up to prey upon themselves. And, what was still more interesting, the clue was given to a singular credulousness, by which, in spite of her unusual penetration, Margaret might be led away blindfold. As this revelation of her ardent nature burst upon me, and as, rapidly recalling the past, I saw how faithful she had kept to her high purposes,--how patient, gentle, and thoughtful for others, how active in self-improvement and usefulness, how wisely dignified she had been,--I could not but bow to her in reverence.

We walked back to the house amid a rosy sunset, and it was with no surprise that I heard her complain of an agonizing nervous headache, which compelled her at once to retire, and call for assistance. As for myself, while going homeward, I reflected with astonishment on the unflagging spiritual energy with which, for hour after hour, she had swept over lands and seas of thought, and, as my own excitement cooled, I became conscious of exhaustion, as if a week's life had been concentrated in a day.

The interview, thus hastily sketched, may serve as a fair type of our usual intercourse. Always I found her open-eyed to beauty, fresh for wonder, with wings poised for flight, and fanning the coming breeze of inspiration. Always she seemed to see before her,

"A shape all light, which with one hand did fling
Dew on the earth, as if she were the dawn,
And the invisible rain did ever sing
A silver music on the mossy lawn."

Yet more and more distinctly did I catch a plaintive tone of sorrow in her thought and speech, like the wail of an Æolian harp heard at intervals from some upper window. She had never met one who could love her as she could love; and in the orange-grove of her affections the white, perfumed blossoms and golden fruit wasted away unclaimed. Through the mask of slight personal defects and ungraceful manners, of superficial hauteur and egotism, and occasional extravagance of sentiment, no equal had recognized the rare beauty of her spirit. She was yet alone.

Among her papers remains this pathetic petition:--

'I am weary of thinking. I suffer great fatigue from living.
Oh God, take me! take me wholly! Thou knowest that I love none
but Thee. All this beautiful poesy of my being lies in Thee.
Deeply I feel it. I ask nothing. Each desire, each passionate
feeling, is on the surface only; inmostly Thou keepest me
strong and pure. Yet always to be thus going out into moments,
into nature, and love, and thought! Father, I am weary!
Reassume me for a while, I pray Thee. Oh let me rest awhile in
Thee, Thou only Love! In the depth of my prayer I suffer much.
Take me only awhile. No fellow-being will receive me. I cannot
pause; they will not detain me by their love. Take me awhile,
and again I will go forth on a renewed service. It is not that
I repine, my Father, but I sink from want of rest, and none
will shelter me. Thou knowest it all. Bathe me in the living
waters of Thy Love.'

VII.

THE FRIEND.

* * * * *

Yet, conscious as she was of an unfulfilled destiny, and of an undeveloped being, Margaret was no pining sentimentalist. The gums oozing from wounded boughs she burned as incense in her oratory; but in outward relations she was munificent with sympathy.

'Let me be, Theodora, a bearer of heavenly gifts to my
fellows,'

is written in her journals, and her life fulfilled the aspiration. The more one observed her, the more surprising appeared the variety, earnestness, and constancy of her friendships. Far and wide reached her wires of communication, and incessant was the interchange of messages of good-will. She was never so preoccupied and absorbed as to deny a claimant for her affectionate interest; she never turned her visitors back upon themselves, mortified and vexed at being misunderstood. With delicate justice she appreciated the special form, force, tendency of utterly dissimilar characters and her heart responded to every appeal alike of humblest suffering or loftiest endeavor. In the plain, yet eloquent phrase of the backwoodsman, "the string of her door-latch was always out," and every wayfarer was free to share the shelter of her roof, or a seat beside her hearth-stone. Or, rather, it might be said, in symbol of her wealth of spirit, her palace, with its galleries of art, its libraries and festal-halls, welcomed all guests who could enjoy and use them.

She was, indeed, The Friend. This was her vocation. She bore at her girdle a golden key to unlock all caskets of confidence. Into whatever home she entered she brought a benediction of truth, justice, tolerance, and honor; and to every one who sought her to confess, or seek counsel, she spoke the needed word of stern yet benignant wisdom. To how many was the forming of her acquaintance an era of renovation, of awakening from sloth, indulgence or despair, to heroic mastery of fate, of inward serenity and strength, of new-birth to real self-hood, of catholic sympathies, of energy consecrated to the Supreme Good. Thus writes to her one who stands among the foremost in his own department: "What I am I owe, in large measure, to the stimulus you imparted. You roused my heart with high hopes; you raised my aims from paltry and vain pursuits to those which tasked and fed the soul; you inspired me with a great ambition, and made me see the worth and meaning of life; you awakened in me confidence in my own powers, showed me my special and distinct ability, and quickened my individual consciousness by intelligent sympathy with tendencies and feelings which I but half understood; you gave me to myself. This is a most benign influence to exercise, and for it, above all other benefits, gratitude is due. Therefore have you an inexhaustible bank of gratitude to draw from. Bless God that he has allotted to you such a ministry."

The following extracts from her letters will show how profusely Margaret poured out her treasures upon her friends; but they reveal, too, the painful processes of alchemy whereby she transmuted her lead into gold.

'Your idea of friendship apparently does not include
intellectual intimacy, as mine does, but consists of mutual
esteem and spiritual encouragement. This is the thought
represented, on antique gems and bas-reliefs, of the meeting
between God and Goddess, I find; for they rather offer one
another the full flower of being, than grow together. As in
the figures before me, Jupiter, king of Gods and men, meets
Juno, the sister and queen, not as a chivalric suppliant, but
as a stately claimant; and she, crowned, pure, majestic, holds
the veil aside to reveal herself to her august spouse.'

* * * * *

'How variously friendship is represented in literature!
Sometimes the two friends kindle beacons from afar to apprize
one another that they are constant, vigilant, and each
content in his several home. Sometimes, two pilgrims, they go
different routes in service of the same saint, and remember
one another as they give alms, learn wisdom, or pray in
shrines along the road. Sometimes, two knights, they bid
farewell with mailed hand of truth and honor all unstained,
as they ride forth on their chosen path to test the spirit of
high emprise, and free the world from wrong,--to meet again
for unexpected succor in the hour of peril, or in joyful
surprise to share a frugal banquet on the plat of greensward
opening from forest glades. Sometimes, proprietors of two
neighboring estates, they have interviews in the evening to
communicate their experiments and plans, or to study together
the stars from an observatory; if either is engaged he simply
declares it; they share enjoyments cordially; they exchange
praise or blame frankly; in citizen-like good-fellowship they
impart their gains.

'All these views of friendship are noble and beautiful, yet
they are not enough for our manifold nature. Friends should
be our incentives to Right, yet not only our guiding, but our
prophetic stars. To love by sight is much, to love by faith
is more; together they make up the entire love, without which
heart, mind, and soul cannot be alike satisfied. Friends
should love not merely for the absolute worth of each to the
other, but on account of a mutual fitness of character. They
are not merely one another's priests or gods, but ministering
angels, exercising in their part the same function as the
Great Soul does in the whole,--of seeing the perfect through
the imperfect, nay, creating it there. Why am I to love my
friend the less for any obstruction in his life? Is not that
the very time for me to love most tenderly, when I must see
his life in despite of seeming? When he shows it to me I can
only admire; I do not give myself, I am taken captive.

'But how shall I express my meaning? Perhaps I can do so from
the tales of chivalry, where I find what corresponds far more
thoroughly with my nature, than in these stoical statements.
The friend of Amadis expects to hear prodigies of valor of
the absent Preux, but if he be mutilated in one of his first
battles, shall he be mistrusted by the brother of his soul,
more than if he had been tested in a hundred? If Britomart
finds Artegall bound in the enchanter's spell, can she
doubt therefore him whom she has seen in the magic glass? A
Britomart does battle in his cause, and frees him from the
evil power, while a dame of less nobleness might sit and watch
the enchanted sleep, weeping night and day, or spur on her
white palfrey to find some one more helpful than herself.
These friends in chivalry are always faithful through the dark
hours to the bright. The Douglas motto, "tender and true,"
seems to me most worthy of the strongest breast. To borrow
again from Spencer, I am entirely satisfied with the fate of
the three brothers. I could not die while there was yet life
in my brother's breast. I would return from the shades and
nerve him with twofold life for the fight. I could do it, for
our hearts beat with one blood. Do you not see the truth and
happiness of this waiting tenderness? The verse--

"Have I a lover
Who is noble and free,
I would he were nobler
Than to love me,"--

does not come home to my heart, though _this_ does:--

"I could not love thee, sweet, so much,
Loved I not honor more."

* * * '_October 10th, 1840._--I felt singular pleasure in
seeing you quote Hood's lines on "Melancholy." I thought
nobody knew and loved his serious poems except myself, and
two or three others, to whom I imparted them.[A] Do you like,
also, the ode to Autumn, and--

"Sigh on, sad heart, for love's eclipse"?

It was a beautiful time when I first read these poems. I was
staying in Hallowell, Maine, and could find no books that I
liked, except Hood's poems. You know how the town is built,
like a terraced garden on the river's bank; I used to go every
afternoon to the granite quarry which crowns these terraces,
and read till the sunset came casting its last glory on the
opposite bank. They were such afternoons as those in September
and October, clear, soft, and radiant. Nature held nothing
back. 'Tis many years since, and I have never again seen the
Kennebec, but remember it as a stream of noble character. It
was the first river I ever sailed up, realizing all which that
emblem discloses of life. Greater still would the charm have
been to sail downward along an unknown stream, seeking not a
home, but a ship upon the ocean.'

* * * * *

'_Newbury, Oct. 18, 1840._--It rained, and the day was pale
and sorrowful, the thick-fallen leaves even shrouded the
river. We went out in the boat, and sat under the bridge. The
pallid silence, the constant fall of the rain and leaves, were
most soothing, life had been for many weeks so crowded with
thought and feeling, pain and pleasure, rapture and care.
Nature seemed gently to fold us in her matron's mantle. On
such days the fall of the leaf does not bring sadness, only
meditation. Earth seemed to loose the record of past summer
hours from her permanent life, as lightly, and spontaneously,
as the great genius casts behind him a literature,--the
Odyssey he has outgrown. In the evening the rain ceased, the
west wind came, and we went out in the boat again for some
hours; indeed, we staid till the last clouds passed from the
moon. Then we climbed the hill to see the full light in solemn
sweetness over fields, and trees, and river.

'I never enjoyed anything more in its way than the three
days alone with ---- in her boat, upon the little river.
Not without reason was it that Goethe limits the days of
intercourse to _three_, in the Wanderjahre. If you have lived
so long in uninterrupted communion with any noble being, and
with nature, a remembrance of man's limitations seems to call
on Polycrates to cast forth his ring. She seemed the very
genius of the scene, so calm, so lofty, and so secluded. I
never saw any place that seemed to me so much like home. The
beauty, though so great, is so unobtrusive.

'As we glided along the river, I could frame my community far
more naturally and rationally than ----. A few friends should
settle upon the banks of a stream like this, planting their
homesteads. Some should be farmers, some woodmen, others
bakers, millers, &c. By land, they should carry to one another
the commodities; on the river they should meet for society. At
sunset many, of course, would be out in their boats, but they
would love the hour too much ever to disturb one another. I
saw the spot where we should discuss the high mysteries that
Milton speaks of. Also, I saw the spot where I would invite
select friends to live through the noon of night, in silent
communion. When we wished to have merely playful chat, or talk
on politics or social reform, we would gather in the mill, and
arrange those affairs while grinding the corn. What a happy
place for children to grow up in! Would it not suit little
---- to go to school to the cardinal flowers in her boat,
beneath the great oak-tree? I think she would learn more than
in a phalanx of juvenile florists. But, truly, why has such a
thing never been? One of these valleys so immediately suggests
an image of the fair company that might fill it, and live so
easily, so naturally, so wisely. Can we not people the banks
of some such affectionate little stream? I distrust ambitious
plans, such as Phalansterian organizations!

'---- is quite bent on trying his experiment. I hope he may
succeed; but as they were talking the other evening, I
thought of the river, and all the pretty symbols the tide-mill
presents, and felt if I could at all adjust the economics to
the more simple procedure, I would far rather be the miller,
hoping to attract by natural affinity some congenial baker,
"und so weiter." However, one thing seems sure, that many
persons will soon, somehow, somewhere, throw off a part, at
least, of these terrible weights of the social contract, and
see if they cannot lie more at ease in the lap of Nature. I
do not feel the same interest in these plans, as if I had a
firmer hold on life, but I listen with much pleasure to the
good suggestions.'

* * * * *

'_Oct. 19th, 1840._ ---- was here. Generally I go out of
the room when he comes, for his great excitability makes
me nervous, and his fondness for detail is wearisome. But
to-night I was too much fatigued to do anything else, and
did not like to leave mother; so I lay on the sofa while she
talked with him.

'My mind often wandered, yet ever and anon, as I listened
again to him, I was struck with admiration at the
compensations of Nature. Here is a man, isolated from his
kind beyond any I know, of an ambitious temper and without an
object of tender affections and without a love or a friend. I
don't suppose any mortal, unless it be his aged mother, cares
more for him than we do,--scarce any value him so much. The
disease, which has left him, in the eyes of men, a scathed and
blighted tree, has driven him back to Nature, and she has not
refused him sympathy. I was surprised by the refinement of
his observations on the animals, his pets. He has carried
his intercourse with them to a degree of perfection we rarely
attain with our human friends. There is no misunderstanding
between him and his dogs and birds; and how rich has been the
acquaintance in suggestion! Then the flowers! I liked to
hear him, for he recorded all their pretty ways,--not like a
botanist, but a lover. His interview with the Magnolia of Lake
Pontchartrain was most romantic. And what he said of the
Yuca seems to me so pretty, that I will write it down, though
somewhat more concisely than he told it:--

'"I had kept these plants of the Yuca Filamentosa six or seven
years, though they had never bloomed. I knew nothing of them,
and had no notion of what feelings they would excite. Last
June I found in bud the one which had the most favorable
exposure. A week or two after, another, which was more in the
shade, put out flower-buds, and I thought I should be able to
watch them, one after the other; but, no! the one which was
most favored waited for the other, and both flowered together
at the full of the moon. This struck me as very singular, but
as soon as I saw the flower by moonlight I understood it. This
flower is made for the moon, as the Heliotrope is for the sun,
and refuses other influences or to display her beauty in any
other light.

'"The first night I saw it in flower, I was conscious of a
peculiar delight, I may even say rapture. Many white flowers
are far more beautiful by day; the lily, for instance, with
its firm, thick leaf, needs the broadest light to manifest its
purity. But these transparent leaves of greenish white, which
look dull in the day, are melted by the moon to glistening
silver. And not only does the plant not appear in its destined
hue by day, but the flower, though, as bell-shaped, it cannot
quite close again after having once expanded, yet presses its
petals together as closely as it can, hangs down its little
blossoms, and its tall stalk seems at noon to have reared
itself only to betray a shabby insignificance. Thus, too,
with the leaves, which have burst asunder suddenly like the
fan-palm to make way for the stalk,--their edges in the day
time look ragged and unfinished, as if nature had left them
in a hurry for some more pleasing task. On the day after
the evening when I had thought it so beautiful, I could not
conceive how I had made such a mistake.

'"But the second evening I went out into the garden again. In
clearest moonlight stood my flower, more beautiful than ever.
The stalk pierced the air like a spear, all the little bells
had erected themselves around it in most graceful array, with
petals more transparent than silver, and of softer light
than the diamond. Their edges were clearly, but not sharply
defined. They seemed to have been made by the moon's rays. The
leaves, which had looked ragged by day, now seemed fringed by
most delicate gossamer, and the plant might claim with pride
its distinctive epithet of Filamentosa. I looked at it till
my feelings became so strong that I longed to share it. The
thought which filled my mind was that here we saw the type of
pure feminine beauty in the moon's own flower. I have since
had further opportunity of watching the Yuca, and verified
these observations, that she will not flower till the full
moon, and chooses to hide her beauty from the eye of day."

'Might not this be made into a true poem, if written out
merely as history of the plant, and no observer introduced?
How finely it harmonizes with all legends of Isis, Diana, &c.!
It is what I tried to say in the sonnet,--

Woman's heaven,
Where palest lights a silvery sheen diffuse.

'In tracing these correspondences, one really does take hold
of a Truth, of a Divine Thought.' * *

* * * * *

'_October 25th, 1840._--This week I have not read any book,
nor once walked in the woods and fields. I meant to give its
days to setting outward things in order, and its evenings to
writing. But, I know not how it is, I can never simplify my
life; always so many ties, so many claims! However, soon the
winter winds will chant matins and vespers, which may make my
house a cell, and in a snowy veil enfold me for my prayer.
If I cannot dedicate myself this time, I will not expect it
again. Surely it should be! These Carnival masks have crowded
on me long enough, and Lent must be at hand. * *

'---- and ---- have been writing me letters, to answer which
required all the time and thought I could give for a day or
two. ----'s were of joyful recognition, and so beautiful I
would give much to show them to you. ----'s have singularly
affected me. They are noble, wise, of most unfriendly
friendliness. I don't know why it is, I always seem to myself
to have gone so much further with a friend than I really have.
Just as at Newport I thought ---- met me, when he did not, and
sang a joyful song which found no echo, so here ---- asks me
questions which I thought had been answered in the first days
of our acquaintance, and coldly enumerates all the charming
qualities which make it impossible for him to part with me!
He scolds me, though in the sweetest and solemnest way. I will
not quote his words, though their beauty tempts me, for they
do not apply, they do not touch ME.

'Why is it that the religion of my nature is so much hidden
from my peers? why do they question me, who never question
them? why persist to regard as a meteor an orb of assured
hope? Can no soul know me wholly? shall I never know the deep
delight of gratitude to any but the All-Knowing? I shall
wait for ---- very peaceably, in reverent love as ever; but I
cannot see why he should not have the pleasure of knowing now
a friend, who has been "so tender and true."'

* * * * *

'---- was here, and spent twenty-four hours in telling me a
tale of deepest tragedy. Its sad changes should be written out
in Godwin's best manner: such are the themes he loved, as did
also Rousseau. Through all the dark shadows shone a pure
white ray, one high, spiritual character, a man, too, and of
advanced age. I begin to respect men more,--I mean actual men.
What men may be, I know; but the men of to-day have seemed to
me of such coarse fibre, or else such poor wan shadows!

'---- had scarcely gone, when ---- came and wished to spend
a few hours with me. I was totally exhausted, but I lay down,
and she sat beside me, and poured out all her noble feelings
and bright fancies. There was little light in the room, and
she gleamed like a cloud

--"of pearl and opal,"

and reminded me more than ever of

--"the light-haired Lombardess
Singing a song of her own native land,"

to the dying Correggio, beside the fountain.

'I am astonished to see how much Bettine's book is to all
these people. This shows how little courage they have had to
live out themselves. She really brings them a revelation. The
men wish they had been loved by Bettine; the girls wish to
write down the thoughts that come, and see if just such a book
does not grow up. ----, however, was one of the few who do not
over-estimate her; she truly thought Bettine only publishes
what many burn. Would not genius be common as light, if men
trusted their higher selves?'

* * * * *

'I heard in town that ---- is a father, and has gone to see
his child. This news made me more grave even than such news
usually does; I suppose because I have known the growth of
his character so intimately. I called to mind a letter he had
written me of what we had expected of our fathers. The ideal
father, the profoundly wise, provident, divinely tender and
benign, he is indeed the God of the human heart. How solemn
this moment of being called to prepare the way, to _make way_
for another generation! What fulfilment does it claim in
the character of a man, that he should be worthy to be a
father!--what purity of motive, what dignity, what knowledge!
When I recollect how deep the anguish, how deeper still the
want, with which I walked alone in hours of childish passion,
and called for a Father, often saying the word a hundred
times, till stifled by sobs, how great seems the duty that
name imposes! Were but the harmony preserved throughout! Could
the child keep learning his earthly, as he does his heavenly
Father, from all best experience of life, till at last it were
the climax: "I am the Father. Have ye seen me?--ye have seen
the Father." But how many sons have we to make one father?
Surely, to spirits, not only purified but perfected, this
must appear the climax of earthly being,--a wise and worthy
parentage. Here I always sympathize with Mr. Alcott. He views
the relation truly.'

* * * * *

'_Dec. 3, 1840._ ---- bids me regard her "as a sick child;"
and the words recall some of the sweetest hours of existence.
My brother Edward was born on my birth-day, and they said he
should be my child. But he sickened and died just as the bud
of his existence showed its first bright hues. He was some
weeks wasting away, and I took care of him always half the
night. He was a beautiful child, and became very dear to me
then. Still in lonely woods the upturned violets show me the
pleading softness of his large blue eyes, in those hours when
I would have given worlds to prevent his suffering, and
could not. I used to carry him about in my arms for hours; it
soothed him, and I loved to feel his gentle weight of helpless
purity upon my heart, while night listened around. At last,
when death came, and the soul took wing like an overtasked
bird from his sweet form, I felt what I feel now. Might I free
----, as that angel freed him!

'In daily life I could never hope to be an unfailing fountain
of energy and bounteous love. My health is frail; my earthly
life is shrunk to a scanty rill; I am little better than an
aspiration, which the ages will reward, by empowering me to
incessant acts of vigorous beauty. But now it is well with me
to be with those who do not suffer overmuch to have me suffer.
It is best for me to serve where I can better bear to fall
short. I could visit ---- more nobly than in daily life,
through the soul of our souls. When she named me her
Priestess, that name made me perfectly happy. Long has been my
consecration; may I not meet those I hold dear at the altar?
How would I pile up the votive offerings, and crowd the fires
with incense? Life might be full and fair; for, in my own way,
I could live for my friends.' * *

* * * * *

'_Dec. 8th, 1840._--My book of amusement has been the Evenings
of St. Petersburg. I do not find the praises bestowed on it at
all exaggerated. Yet De Maistre is too logical for me. I only
catch a thought here and there along the page. There is a
grandeur even in the subtlety of his mind. He walks with
a step so still, that, but for his dignity, it would be
stealthy, yet with brow erect and wide, eye grave and deep. He
is a man such as I have never known before.' * *

'I went to see Mrs. Wood in the Somnambula. Nothing could
spoil this opera, which expresses an ecstasy, a trance of
feeling, better than anything I ever heard. I have loved every
melody in it for years, and it was happiness to listen to
the exquisite modulations as they flowed out of one another,
endless ripples on a river deep, wide and strewed with
blossoms. I never have known any one more to be loved than
Bellini. No wonder the Italians make pilgrimages to his grave.
In him thought and feeling flow always in one tide; he never
divides himself. He is as melancholy as he is sweet; yet his
melancholy is not impassioned, but purely tender.'

* * * * *

'_Dec. 15, 1840._--I have not time to write out as I should
this sweet story of Melissa, but here is the outline:--

'More than four years ago she received an injury, which caused
her great pain in the spine, and went to the next country
town to get medical advice. She stopped at the house of a poor
blacksmith, an acquaintance only, and has never since been
able to be moved. Her mother and sister come by turns to take
care of her. She cannot help herself in any way, but is as
completely dependent as an infant. The blacksmith and his
wife gave her the best room in their house, have ever since
ministered to her as to a child of their own, and, when people
pity them for having to bear such a burthen, they say, "It is
none, but a blessing."

'Melissa suffers all the time, and great pain. She cannot
amuse or employ herself in any way, and all these years has
been as dependent on others for new thoughts, as for daily
cares. Yet her mind has deepened, and her character refined,
under those stern teachers, Pain and Gratitude, till she has
become the patron saint of the village, and the muse of
the village school-mistress. She has a peculiar aversion to
egotism, and could not bear to have her mother enlarge upon
her sufferings.

'"Perhaps it will pain the lady to hear that," said the mild,
religious sufferer, who had borne all without a complaint.

"Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth." The poor are the
generous: the injured, the patient and loving.

All that ---- said of this girl was in perfect harmony with
what De Maistre says of the saint of St. Petersburg, who,
almost devoured by cancer, when, asked, "Quelle est la
premiere grace que vous demanderez a Dieu, ma chére enfant,
lorsque vous serez devant lui?" she replied, "Je lui
demanderai pour mes bienfaiteurs la grace de Paimer autant que
je l'aime."

'When they were lamenting for her, "Je ne suis pas, dit elle,
aussi malheureuse que vous le croyez; Dieu me fait la grace de
ne peuser, qu'a lui."' * *

'Next of Edith. Tall, gaunt, hard-favored was this candidate
for the American calendar; but Bonilacia might be her name.
From her earliest years she had valued all she knew, only as
she was to teach it again. Her highest ambition was to be the
school-mistress; her recreation to dress the little ragged
things, and take care of them out of school hours. She had
some taste for nursing the grown-up, but this was quite
subordinate to her care of the buds of the forest. Pure,
perfectly beneficent, lived Edith, and never thought of any
thing or person, but for its own sake. When she had attained
midway the hill of life, she happened to be boarding in the
house with a young farmer, who was lost in admiration of her
lore. How he wished he, too, could read! "What, can't you
read? O, let me teach you!"--"You never can; I was too
thick-skulled to learn even at school. I am sure I never
could now." But Edith was not to be daunted by any fancies
of incapacity, and set to work with utmost zeal to teach this
great grown man the primer. She succeeded, and won his heart
thereby. He wished to requite the raising him from the night
of ignorance, as Howard and Nicholas Poussin did the kind ones
who raised them from the night of the tomb, by the gift of his
hand. Edith consented, on condition that she might still keep
school. So he had his sister come to "keep things straight."
Edith and he go out in the morning,--he to his field, she to
her school, and meet again at eventide, to talk, and plan and,
I hope, to read also.

'The first use Edith made of her accession of property
through her wedded estate, was to give away all she thought
superfluous to a poor family she had long pitied, and
to invite a poor sick woman to her "spare chamber."
Notwithstanding a course like this, her husband has grown
rich, and proves that the pattern of the widow's cruse was not
lost in Jewry.

'Edith has become the Natalia of the village, as is Melissa
its "Schöne Seele."'

* * * * *

'_Dec., 22, 1840._--"Community" seems dwindling to a point,
and I fancy the best use of the plan, as projected thus far,
will prove the good talks it has caused here, upon principles.
I feel and find great want of wisdom in myself and the others.
We are not ripe to reconstruct society yet. O Christopher
Columbus! how art thou to be admired, when we see how other
men go to work with their lesser enterprises! ---- knows
deepest what he wants, but not well how to get it. ---- has a
better perception of means, and less insight as to principles;
but this movement has done him a world of good. All should
say, however, that they consider this plan as a mere
experiment, and are willing to fail. I tell them that they are
not ready till they can say that. ---- says he can bear to be
treated unjustly by all concerned,--which is much. He is too
sanguine, as it appears to me, but his aim is worthy, and,
with his courage and clear intellect, his experiment will not,
at least to him, be a failure.'

* * * * *

'_Feb. 19, 1841._--Have I never yet seen so much as _one_ of
my spiritual family? The other night they sat round me, so
many who have thought they loved, or who begin to love me.
I felt myself kindling the same fire in all their souls.
I looked on each, and no eye repelled me. Yet there was no
warmth for me on all those altars. Their natures seemed deep,
yet there was 'not one from which I could draw the living
fountain. I could only cheat the hour with them, prize,
admire, and pity. It was sad; yet who would have seen sadness
in me? * *

'Once I was almost all intellect; now I am almost all feeling.
Nature vindicates her rights, and I feel all Italy glowing
beneath the Saxon crust. This cannot last long; I shall burn
to ashes if all this smoulders here much longer. I must die if
I do not burst forth in genius or heroism.

'I meant to have translated the best passages of "Die
Gunderode,"--which I prefer to Bettine's correspondence with
Goethe. The two girls are equal natures, and both in earnest.
Goethe made a puppet-show, for his private entertainment,
of Bettine's life, and we wonder she did not feel he was not
worthy of her homage. Gunderode is to me dear and admirable,
Bettine only interesting. Gunderode is of religious grace,
Bettine the fulness of instinctive impulse; Gunderode is the
ideal, Bettine nature; Gunderode throws herself into the river
because the world is all too narrow, Bettine lives and
follows out every freakish fancy, till the enchanting child
degenerates into an eccentric and undignified old woman. There
is a medium somewhere. Philip Sidney found it; others had it
found for them by fate.'

* * * * *

'_March_ 29. 1841.--* * Others have looked at society with far
deeper consideration than I. I have felt so unrelated to this
sphere, that it has not been hard for me to be true. Also, I
do not believe in Society. I feel that every man must struggle
with these enormous ills, in some way, in every age; in that
of Moses, or Plato, or Angelo, as in our own. So it has not
moved me much to see my time so corrupt, but it would if I
were in a false position.

'---- went out to his farm yesterday, full of cheer, as
one who doeth a deed with sincere good will. He has shown
a steadfastness and earnestness of purpose most grateful to
behold. I do not know what their scheme will ripen to; at
present it does not deeply engage my hopes. It is thus far
only a little better way than others. I doubt if they will get
free from all they deprecate in society.'

* * * * *

'_Paradise Farm, Newport, July, 1841._--Here are no deep
forests, no stern mountains, nor narrow, sacred valleys; but
the little white farm-house looks down from its gentle
slope on the boundless sea, and beneath the moon, beyond the
glistening corn-fields, is heard the endless surge. All
around the house is most gentle and friendly, with many
common flowers, that seem to have planted themselves, and
the domestic honey-suckle carefully trained over the little
window. Around are all the common farm-house sounds,--the
poultry making a pleasant recitative between the carols of
singing birds; even geese and turkeys are not inharmonious
when modulated by the diapasons of the beach. The orchard of
very old apple-trees, whose twisted forms tell of the glorious
winds that have here held revelry, protects a little homely
garden, such as gives to me an indescribable refreshment,
where the undivided vegetable plots and flourishing young
fruit-trees, mingling carelessly, seem as if man had dropt the
seeds just where he wanted the plants, and they had sprung up
at once. The family, too, look, at first glance, well-suited
to the place,--homely, kindly, unoppressed, of honest pride
and mutual love, not unworthy to look out upon the far-shining
sea.

'Many, many sweet little things would I tell you, only they
are so very little. I feel just now as if I could live and die
here. I am out in the open air all the time, except about two
hours in the early morning. And now the moon is fairly gone
late in the evening. While she was here, we staid out, too.
Everything seems sweet here, so homely, so kindly; the old
people chatting so contentedly, the young men and girls
laughing together in the fields,--not vulgarly, but in the
true kinsfolk way,--little children singing in the house and
beneath the berry-bushes. The never-ceasing break of the
surf is a continual symphony, calming the spirits which this
delicious air might else exalt too much. Everything on the
beach becomes a picture; the casting the seine, the ploughing
the deep for seaweed. This, when they do it with horses, is
prettiest of all; but when you see the oxen in the surf, you
lose all faith in the story of Europa, as the gay waves tumble
in on their lazy sides. The bull would be a fine object on the
shore, but not, not in the water. Nothing short of a dolphin
will do! Late to-night, from the highest Paradise rocks,
seeing ---- wandering, and the horsemen careering on the
beach, so spectrally passing into nature, amid the pale,
brooding twilight, I almost thought myself in the land of
souls!

'But in the morning it is life, all cordial and common. This
half-fisherman, half-farmer life seems very favorable to
manliness. I like to talk with the fishermen; they are not
boorish, not limited, but keen-eyed, and of a certain rude
gentleness. Two or three days ago I saw the sweetest picture.
There is a very tall rock, one of the natural pulpits, at one
end of the beach. As I approached, I beheld a young fisherman
with his little girl; he had nestled her into a hollow of the
rock, and was standing before her, with his arms round her,
and looking up in her face. Never was anything so pretty. I
stood and stared, country fashion; and presently he scrambled
up to the very top with her in his arms. She screamed a little
as they went, but when they were fairly up on the crest of the
rock, she chuckled, and stretched her tiny hand over his neck,
to go still further. Yet, when she found he did not wish it,
she leaned against his shoulder, and he sat, feeling himself
in the child like that exquisite Madonna, and looking out over
the great sea. Surely, the "kindred points of heaven and home"
were known in his breast, whatever guise they might assume.

'The sea is not always lovely and bounteous, though generally,
since we have been here, she has beamed her bluest. The night
of the full moon we staid out on the far rocks. The afternoon
was fair: the sun set nobly, wrapped in a violet mantle,
which he left to the moon, in parting. She not only rose red,
lowering, and of impatient attitude, but kept hiding her head
all the evening with an angry, struggling movement. ----
said, "This is not Dian;" and I replied, "No; now we see the
Hecate." But the damp, cold wind came sobbing, and the waves
began wailing, too, till I was seized with a feeling of
terror, such as I never had before, even in the darkest, and
most treacherous, rustling wood. The moon seemed sternly to
give me up to the dæmons of the rock, and the waves to mourn
a tragic chorus, till I felt their cold grasp. I suffered
so much, that I feared we should never get home without some
fatal catastrophe. Never was I more relieved than when, as we
came up the hill, the moon suddenly shone forth. It was ten
o'clock, and here every human sound is hushed, and lamp put
out at that hour. How tenderly the grapes and tall corn-ears
glistened and nodded! and the trees stretched out their
friendly arms, and the scent of every humblest herb was like a
word of love. The waves, also, at that moment put on a silvery
gleam, and looked most soft and regretful. That was a real
voice from nature.'

* * * * *

'_February_, 1842.--I am deeply sad at the loss of little
Waldo, from whom I hoped more than from almost any living
being. I cannot yet reconcile myself to the thought that the
sun shines upon the grave of the beautiful blue-eyed boy, and
I shall see him no more.

'Five years he was an angel to us, and I know not that any
person was ever more the theme of thought to me. As I walk the
streets they swarm with apparently worthless lives, and the
question will rise, why he, why just he, who "bore within
himself the golden future," must be torn away? His father
will meet him again; but to me he seems lost, and yet that is
weakness. I _must_ meet that which he represented, since I
so truly loved it. He was the only child I ever saw, that I
sometimes wished I could have called mine.

'I loved him more than any child I ever knew, as he was of
nature more fair and noble. You would be surprised to know how
dear he was to my imagination. I saw him but little, and it
was well; for it is unwise to bind the heart where there is
no claim. But it is all gone, and is another of the lessons
brought by each year, that we are to expect suggestions only,
and not fulfilments, from each form of beauty, and to regard
them merely as Angels of The Beauty.'

* * * * *

'_June, 1842._--Why must children be with perfect people, any
more than people wait to be perfect to be friends? The secret
is,--is it not?--for parents to feel and be willing their
children should know that they are but little older than
themselves: only a class above, and able to give them some
help in learning their lesson. Then parent and child keep
growing together, in the same house. Let them blunder as we
blundered. God is patient for us; why should not we be for
them? Aspiration teaches always, and God leads, by inches. A
perfect being would hurt a child no less than an imperfect.'

* * * * *

'It always makes my annoyances seem light, to be riding about
to visit these fine houses. Not that I am intolerant towards
the rich, but I cannot help feeling at such times how much
characters require the discipline of difficult circumstances.
To say nothing of the need the soul has of a peace and courage
that cannot be disturbed, even as to the intellect, how can
one be sure of not sitting down in the midst of indulgence to
pamper tastes alone, and how easy to cheat one's self with the
fancy that a little easy reading or writing is quite work.
I am safer; I do not sleep on roses. I smile to myself, when
with these friends, at their care of me. I let them do as they
will, for I know it will not last long enough to spoil me.'

* * * * *

'I take great pleasure in talking with Aunt Mary.[B] Her
strong and simple nature checks not, falters not. Her
experience is entirely unlike mine, as, indeed, is that of
most others whom I know. No rapture, no subtle process, no
slow fermentation in the unknown depths, but a rill struck out
from the rock, clear and cool in all its course, the still,
small voice. She says the guide of her life has shown itself
rather as a restraining, than an impelling principle. I like
her life, too, as far as I see it; it is dignified and true.'

* * * * *

'_Cambridge, July_, 1842.--A letter at Providence would have
been like manna in the wilderness. I came into the very midst
of the fuss,[C] and, tedious as it was at the time, I am glad
to have seen it. I shall in future be able to believe real,
what I have read with a dim disbelief of such times and
tendencies. There is, indeed, little good, little cheer, in
what I have seen: a city full of grown-up people as wild, as
mischief-seeking, as full of prejudice, careless slander,
and exaggeration, as a herd of boys in the play-ground of the
worst boarding-school. Women whom I have seen, as the
domestic cat, gentle, graceful, cajoling, suddenly showing
the disposition, if not the force, of the tigress. I thought I
appreciated the monstrous growths of rumor before, but I
never did. The Latin poet, though used to a court, has faintly
described what I saw and heard often, in going the length of
a street. It is astonishing what force, purity and wisdom it
requires for a human being to keep clear of falsehoods. These
absurdities, of course, are linked with good qualities,
with energy of feeling, and with a love of morality, though
narrowed and vulgarized by the absence of the intelligence
which should enlighten. I had the good discipline of trying
to make allowance for those making none, to be charitable
to their want of charity, and cool without being cold. But
I don't know when I have felt such an aversion to my
environment, and prayed so earnestly day by day,--"O, Eternal!
purge from my inmost heart this hot haste about ephemeral
trifles," and "keep back thy servant from presumptuous sins;
let them not have dominion over me."

'What a change from the almost vestal quiet of "Aunt Mary's"
life, to all this open-windowed, open-eyed screaming of
"poltroon," "nefarious plan," "entire depravity," &c. &c.'

* * * * *