Chapter IX: HOMEWARD By W.H. Channing (4)

'Of all the books, and men, and women, that have touched me
these weeks past, what has most entered my soul is the music
I have heard,--the masterly expression from that violin; the
triumph of the orchestra, after the exploits on the piano;
Braham, in his best efforts, when he kept true to the dignity
of art; the Messiah, which has been given on two successive
Sundays, and the last time in a way that deeply expressed its
divine life; but above all, Beethoven's seventh symphony. What
majesty! what depth! what tearful sweetness! what victory!
This was truly a fire upon an altar. There are a succession
of soaring passages, near the end of the third movement, which
touch me most deeply. Though soaring, they hold on with a
stress which almost breaks the chains of matter to the hearer.
O, how refreshing, after polemics and philosophy, to soar thus
on strong wings! Yes, Father, I will wander in dark ways with
the crowd, since thou seest best for me to be tied down.
But only in thy free ether do I know myself. When I read
Beethoven's life, I said, "I will never repine." When I heard
this symphony, I said, "I will triumph."

* * * * *

'To-day I have finished the life of Raphael, by Quatremere de
Quincy, which has so long engaged me. It scarce goes deeper
than a _catalogue raisonnée_, but is very complete in its way.
I could make all that splendid era alive to me, and inhale the
full flower of the Sanzio. Easily one soars to worship these
angels of Genius. To venerate the Saints you must well nigh be
one.

'I went out upon the lonely rock which commands so delicious
a panoramic view. A very mild breeze had sprung up after the
extreme heat. A sunset of the melting kind was succeeded by a
perfectly clear moon-rise. Here I sat, and thought of Raphael.
I was drawn high up in the heaven of beauty, and the mists
were dried from the white plumes of contemplation.'#/

'Only by emotion do we know thee, Nature. To lean upon thy
heart, and feel its pulses vibrate to our own;--that is
knowledge, for that is love, the love of infinite beauty, of
infinite love. Thought will never make us be born again.

'My fault is that I think I feel _too much_. O that my friends
would teach me that "simple art of not too much!" How can I
expect them to bear the ceaseless eloquence of my nature?'

* * * * *

'Often it has seemed that I have come near enough to the
limits to see what they are. But suddenly arises afar the Fata
Morgana, and tells of new Sicilies, of their flowery valleys
and fields of golden grain. Then, as I would draw near, my
little bark is shattered on the rock, and I am left on the
cold wave. Yet with my island in sight I do not sink.'

* * * * *

'I look not fairly to myself, at the present moment. If noble
growths are always slow, others may ripen far worthier fruit
than is permitted to my tropical heats and tornadoes. Let me
clasp the cross on my breast, as I have done a thousand times
before.'

'Let me but gather from the earth one full-grown fragrant flower;
Within my bosom let it bloom through, its one blooming hour;
Within my bosom let it die, and to its latest breath
My own shall answer, "Having lived, I shrink not now from death."
It is this niggard halfness that turns my heart to stone;
'T is the cup seen, not tasted, that makes the infant moan.
For once let me press firm my lips upon the moment's brow,
For once let me distinctly feel I am all happy now,
And bliss shall seal a blessing upon that moment's brow.'

'I was in a state of celestial happiness, which lasted a great
while. For months I was all radiant with faith, and love,
and life. I began to be myself. Night and day were equally
beautiful, and the lowest and highest equally holy. Before, it
had seemed as if the Divine only gleamed upon me; but then it
poured into and through me a tide of light. I have passed down
from the rosy mountain, now; but I do not forget its pure air,
nor how the storms looked as they rolled beneath my feet. I
have received my assurance, and if the shadows should lie upon
me for a century, they could never make me forgetful of the
true hour. Patiently I bide my time.'

The last passage describes a peculiar illumination, to which Margaret often referred as the period when her earthly being culminated, and when, in the noon-tide of loving enthusiasm, she felt wholly at one with God, with Man, and the Universe. It was ever after, to her, an earnest that she was of the Elect. In a letter to one of her confidential female friends, she thus fondly looks back to this experience on the mount of transfiguration:--

'You know how, when the leadings of my life found their
interpretation, I longed to share my joy with those I prized
most; for I felt that if they could but understand the past we
should meet entirely. They received me, some more, some less,
according to the degree of intimacy between our natures. But
now I have done with the past, and again move forward. The
path looks more difficult, but I am better able to bear its
trials. We shall have much communion, even if not in the
deepest places. I feel no need of isolation, but only of
temperance in thought and speech, that the essence may not
evaporate in words, but grow plenteous within. The Life will
give me to my own. I am not yet so worthy to love as some
others are, because my manifold nature is not yet harmonized
enough to be faithful, and I begin, to see how much it was the
want of a pure music in me that has made the good doubt me.
Yet have I been true to the best light I had, and if I am so
now much will be given.

'During my last weeks of solitude I was very happy, and all
that had troubled me became clearer. The angel was not weary
of waiting for Gunhilde, till she had unravelled her mesh of
thought, and seeds of mercy, of purification, were planted
in the breast. Whatever the past has been, I feel that I have
always been reading on and on, and that the Soul of all souls
has been patient in love to mine. New assurances were given
me, that if I would be faithful and humble, there was no
experience that would not tell its heavenly errand. If
shadows have fallen, already they give way to a fairer if more
tempered light; and for the present I am so happy that the
spirit kneels.

'Life, is richly worth living, with its continual revelations
of mighty woe, yet infinite hope: and I take it to my breast.
Amid these scenes of beauty, all that is little, foreign,
unworthy, vanishes like a dream. So shall it be some time
amidst the Everlasting Beauty, when true joy shall begin and
never cease.'

Filled thus as Margaret was with ecstasy, she was yet more than willing,--even glad,--to bear her share in the universal sorrow. Well she knew that pain must be proportioned to the fineness and fervor of her organization; that the very keenness of her sensibility exposed her to constant disappointment or disgust; that no friend, however faithful, could meet the demands of desires so eager, of sympathies so absorbing. Contrasted with her radiant visions, how dreary looked actual existence; how galling was the friction of petty hindrances; how heavy the yoke of drudging care! Even success seemed failure, when measured by her conscious aim; and experience had brought out to consciousness excesses and defects, which humbled pride while shaming self-confidence. But suffering as she did with all the intensity of so passionate a nature, Margaret still welcomed the searching discipline. 'It is only when Persephone returns from lower earth that she weds Dyonysos, and passes from central sadness into glowing joy,' she writes. And again: 'I have no belief in beautiful lives; we are born to be mutilated; and the blood must flow till in every vein its place is supplied by the Divine ichor.' And she reiterates: 'The method of Providence with me is evidently that of "cross-biassing," as Herbert hath it. In a word, to her own conscience and to intimate friends she avowed, without reserve, that there was in her 'much rude matter that needed to be spiritualized.' Comment would but weaken the pathos of the following passages, in which so plainly appears a once wilful temper striving, with child-like faith, to obey:--

'I have been a chosen one; the lesson of renunciation was
early, fully taught, and the heart of stone quite broken
through. The Great Spirit wished to leave me no refuge but
itself. Convictions have been given, enough to guide me many
years if I am steadfast. How deeply, how gratefully I feel
this blessing, as the fabric of others' hopes are shivering
round me. Peace will not always flow thus softly in my life;
but, O, our Father! how many hours has He consecrated to
Himself. How often has the Spirit chosen the time, when no ray
came from without, to descend upon the orphan life!'

* * * * *

'A humbler, tenderer spirit! Yes, I long for it. But how to
gain it? I see no way but prayerfully to bend myself to meet
the hour. Let friends be patient with me, and pardon some
faint-heartedness. The buds will shiver in the cold air when
the sheaths drop. It will not be so long. The word "Patience"
has been spoken; it shall be my talisman. A nobler courage
will be given, with gentleness and humility. My conviction is
clear that all my troubles are needed, and that one who has
had so much light thrown upon the path, has no excuse for
faltering steps.'

* * * * *

'Could we command enthusiasm; had we an interest with the gods
which would light up those sacred fires at will, we should be
even seraphic in our influences. But life, if not a complete
waste of wearisome hours, must be checkered with them; and I
find that just those very times, when I feel all glowing and
radiant in the happiness of receiving and giving out again the
divine fluid, are preludes to hours of languor, weariness, and
paltry doubt, born of---

"The secret soul's mistrust
To find her fair ethereal wings
Weighed down by vile, degraded dust."

'To this, all who have chosen or been chosen to a life of
thought must submit. Yet I rejoice in my heritage. Should I
venture to complain? Perhaps, if I were to reckon up the hours
of bodily pain, those passed in society with which I could
not coalesce, those of ineffectual endeavor to penetrate the
secrets of nature and of art, or, worse still, to reproduce
the beautiful in some way for myself, I should find they
far outnumbered those of delightful sensation, of full and
soothing thought, of gratified tastes and affections, and of
proud hope. Yet these last, if few, how lovely, how rich in
presage! None, who have known them, can in their worst estate
fail to hope that they may be again upborne to higher, purer
blue.'

* * * * *

'As I was steeped in the divine tenth book of the Republic,
came ----'s letter, in which he so insultingly retracts his
engagements. I finished the book obstinately, but could get
little good of it; then went to ask comfort of the descending
sun in the woods and fields. What a comment it was on the
disparity between my pursuits and my situation to receive
such a letter while reading that book! However, I will not let
life's mean perplexities blur from my eye the page of Plato;
nor, if natural tears must be dropt, murmur at a lot, which,
with all its bitterness, has given time and opportunity to
cherish an even passionate love for Truth and Beauty.'

* * * * *

'Black Friday it has been, and my heart is well nigh wearied
out. Shall I never be able to act and live with persons of
views high as my own? or, at least, with some steadiness of
feeling for me to calculate upon? Ah, me! what woes within and
without; what assaults of folly; what mean distresses; and,
oh, what wounds from cherished hands! Were ye the persons who
should stab thus? Had I, too, the Roman right to fold my
robe about me decently, and breathe the last sigh! The last!
Horrible, indeed, should sobs, deep as these, be drawn to all
eternity. But no; life could not hold out for more than one
lease of sorrow. This anguish, however, will be wearied out,
as I know by experience, alas! of how many such hours.'

* * * * *

'I am reminded to-day of the autumn hours at Jamaica Plain,
where, after arranging everything for others that they wanted
of me, I found myself, at last, alone in my still home, where
everything, for once, reflected my feelings. It was so still,
the air seemed full of spirits. How happy I was! with what
sweet and solemn happiness! All things had tended to a crisis
in me, and I was in a higher state, mentally and spiritually,
than I ever was before or shall be again, till death shall
introduce me to a new sphere. I purposed to spend the winter
in study and self-collection, and to write constantly. I
thought I should thus be induced to embody in beautiful
forms all that lay in my mind, and that life would ripen into
genius. But a very little while these fair hopes bloomed; and,
since I was checked then, I do never expect to blossom forth
on earth, and all postponements come naturally. At that time
it seemed as if angels left me. Yet, now, I think they still
are near. Renunciation appears to be entire, and I quite
content; yet, probably, 't is no such thing, and that work is
to be done over and over again.'

* * * * *

'Do you believe our prayers avail for one another? and that
happiness is good for the soul? Pray, then, for me, that I may
have a little peace,--some green and flowery spot, 'mid which
my thoughts may rest; yet not upon fallacy, but only upon
something genuine. I am deeply homesick, yet where is that
home? If not on earth, why should we look to heaven? I would
fain truly live wherever I must abide, and bear with full
energy on my lot, whatever it is. He, who alone knoweth,
will affirm that. I have tried to work whole-hearted from an
earnest faith. Yet my hand is often languid, and my heart is
slow. I would be gone; but whither? I know not; if I cannot
make this spot of ground yield the corn and roses, famine must
be my lot forever and ever, surely.'

* * * * *

'I remember how at a similar time of perplexity, when there
were none to counsel, hardly one to sympathize, and when the
conflicting wishes of so many whom I loved pressed the aching
heart on every side, after months of groping and fruitless
thought, the merest trifle precipitated the whole mass; all
became clear as crystal, and I saw of what use the tedious
preparation had been, by the deep content I felt in the
result.'

* * * * *

'Beethoven! Tasso! It is well to think of you! What sufferings
from baseness, from coldness! How rare and momentary were the
flashes of joy, of confidence and tenderness, in these noblest
lives! Yet could not their genius be repressed. The Eternal
Justice lives. O, Father, teach the spirit the meaning of
sorrow, and light up the generous fires of love and hope and
faith, without which I cannot live!'

* * * * *

'What signifies it that Thou dost always give me to drink more
deeply of the inner fountains? And why do I seek a reason for
these repulsions and strange arrangements of my mortal lot,
when I always gain from them a deeper love for all men, and a
deeper trust in Thee? Wonderful are thy ways! But lead me the
darkest and the coldest as Thou wilt.'

* * * * *

'Please, good Genius of my life, to make me very patient,
resolute, gentle, while no less ardent; and after having tried
me well, please present, at the end of some thousand years
or so, a sphere of congenial and consecutive labors; of
heart-felt, heart-filling wishes carried out into life on
the instant; of aims obviously, inevitably proportioned to my
highest nature. Sometime, in God's good time, let me live as
swift and earnest as a flash of the eye. Meanwhile, let me
gather force slowly, and drift along lazily, like yonder
cloud, and be content to end in a few tears at last.'

* * * * *

'To-night I lay on the sofa, and saw how the flame shot up
from beneath, through the mass of coal that had been
piled above. It shot up in wild beautiful jets, and then
unexpectedly sank again, and all was black, unsightly and
forlorn. And thus, I thought, is it with my life at present.
Yet if the fire beneath persists and conquers, that black dead
mass will become all radiant, life-giving, fit for the altar
or the domestic hearth. Yes, and it shall be so.'

* * * * *

'My tendency at present is to the deepest privacy. Where can I
hide till I am given to myself? Yet I love the others more and
more. When they are with me I must give them the best from
my scrip. I see their infirmities, and would fain heal them,
forgetful of my own! But am I left one moment alone, then, a
poor wandering pilgrim, but no saint, I would seek the shrine,
and would therein die to the world. Then if from the poor
relics some miracles might be wrought, that should be for my
fellows. Yet some of the saints were able to work in their
generation, for they had renounced all!'

* * * * *

'Forget, if you can, all of petulant or overstrained that may
have displeased you in me, and commend me in your prayers to
my best self. When, in the solitude of the spirit, comes upon
you some air from the distance, a breath of aspiration, of
faith, of pure tenderness, then believe that the Power which
has guided me so faithfully, emboldens my thoughts to frame a
prayer for you.'

* * * * *

'Beneath all pain inflicted by Nature, be not only serene, but
more; let it avail thee in prayer. Put up, at the moment of
greatest suffering, a prayer; not for thy own escape, but
for the enfranchisement of some being dear to thee, and the
Sovereign Spirit will accept thy ransom.'

* * * * *

'Strive, strive, my soul, to be innocent; yes! beneficent.
Does any man wound thee? not only forgive, but Work into thy
thought intelligence of the kind of pain, that thou mayest
never inflict it on another spirit. Then its work is done; it
will never search thy whole nature again. O, love much, and be
forgiven!'

* * * * *

'No! we cannot leave society while one clod remains unpervaded
by divine life. We cannot live and grow in consecrated earth,
alone. Let us rather learn to stand up like the Holy Father,
and with extended arms bless the whole world.'

* * * * *

'It will be happiness indeed, if, on passing this first stage,
we are permitted, in some degree, to alleviate the ills of
those we love,--to lead them on a little way; to aid them when
they call. Often it seems to me, it would be sweet to feel
that I had certainly conferred one benefit. All my poor little
schemes for others are apparently blighted, and now, as ever,
I am referred to the Secular year for the interpretation of my
moments.'

In one of Margaret's manuscripts is found this beautiful symbol:--'There is a species of Cactus, from whose outer bark, if torn by an ignorant person, there exudes a poisonous liquid; but the natives, who know the plant, strike to the core, and there find a sweet, refreshing juice, that renews their strength.' Surely the preceding extracts prove that she was learning how to draw life-giving virtue from the very heart of evil. No superficial experience of sorrow embittered her with angry despair; but through profound acceptance, she sought to imbibe, from every ill, peace, purity and gentleness.

* * * * *

The two fiery trials through which she had been made to pass, and through which she was yet to pass again and again,--obstruction to the development of her genius, and loneliness of heart,--were the very furnace needed to burn the dross from her gold, till it could fitly image the Heavenly Refiner. By inherited traits, and indiscreet treatment, self-love had early become so excessive that only severest discipline could transmute it to disinterestedness. Pity for her own misfortunes had, indeed, taught her to curb her youthful scorn for mediocrity, and filled her with considerateness and delicate sensibility. Constant experience, too, of the wonderful modes whereby her fate was shaped by overruling mercy, had chastened her love of personal sway, and her passion for a commanding career; and Margaret could humble herself,--did often humble herself,--with an all-resigning contrition, that was most touching to witness in one naturally so haughty. Of this the following letter to a valued friend gives illustration:--

'I ought, I know, to have laid aside my own cares and griefs,
been on the alert for intelligence that would gratify you,
and written letters such as would have been of use and given
pleasure to my wise, tender, ever faithful friend. But no; I
first intruded on your happiness with my sorrowful epistles,
and then, because you did not seem to understand my position,
with sullen petulance I resolved to write no more. Nay, worse;
I tried to harden my heart against you, and felt, "If you
cannot be all, you shall be nothing."

'It was a bad omen that I lost the locket you gave me, which
I had constantly worn. Had that been daily before my eyes,
to remind me of all your worth,--of the generosity with which
you, a ripe and wise character, received me to the privileges
of equal friendship; of the sincerity with which you reproved
and the love with which you pardoned my faults; of how much
you taught me, and bore with from me,--it would have softened
the flint of my heart, and I should have relaxed from my
isolation.

'How shall I apologize for feelings which I now recognize as
having been so cold, so bitter and unjust? I can only say
I have suffered greatly, till the tone of my spirits seems
destroyed. Since I have been at leisure to realize how very
ill I have been, under what constant pain and many annoyances
I have kept myself upright, and how, if I have not done
my work, I have learned my lesson to the end, I should be
inclined to excuse myself for every fault, except this neglect
and ingratitude against friends. Yet, if you can forgive, I
will try to forgive myself, and I do think I shall never so
deeply sin again.'

Yet, though thus frank to own to herself and to her peers her errors, Margaret cherished a trust in her powers, a confidence in her destiny, and an ideal of her being, place and influence, so lofty as to be extravagant. In the morning-hour and mountain-air of aspiration, her shadow moved before her, of gigantic size, upon the snow-white vapor.

In accordance with her earnest charge, 'Be true as Truth to me,' I could not but expose this propensity to self-delusion; and her answer is her best explanation and defence:--

'I protest against your applying to me, even in your
most transient thought, such an epithet as "determined
exaggeration." Exaggeration, if you will; but not determined.
No; I would have all open to the light, and would let my
boughs be pruned, when they grow rank and unfruitful, even if
I felt the knife to the quick of my being. Very fain would I
have a rational modesty, without self-distrust; and may
the knowledge of my failures leaven my soul, and check its
intemperance. If you saw me wholly, you would not, I think,
feel as you do; for you would recognize the force, that
regulates my life and tempers the ardor with an eventual
calmness. You would see, too, that the more I take my flight
in poetical enthusiasm, the stronger materials I bring back
for my nest. Certainly I am nowise yet an angel; but neither
am I an utterly weak woman, and far less a cold intellect.
God is rarely afar off. Exquisite nature is all around. Life
affords vicissitudes enough to try the energies of the human
will. I can pray, I can act, I can learn, I can constantly
immerse myself in the Divine Beauty. But I also need to
love my fellow-men, and to meet the responsive glance of my
spiritual kindred.'

Again, she says:--

'I like to hear you express your sense of my defects. The
word "arrogance" does not, indeed, appear to me to be just;
probably because I do not understand what you mean. But in due
time I doubtless shall; for so repeatedly have you used it,
that it must stand for something real in my large and rich,
yet irregular and unclarified nature. But though I like to
hear you, as I say, and think somehow your reproof does me
good, by myself, I return to my native bias, and feel as if
there was plenty of room in the universe for my faults, and
as if I could not spend time in thinking of them, when so
many things interest me more. I have no defiance or coldness,
however, as to these spiritual facts which I do not know;
but I must follow my own law, and bide my time, even if, like
Oedipus, I should return a criminal, blind and outcast, to
ask aid from the gods. Such possibilities, I confess, give
me great awe; for I have more sense than most, of the tragic
depths that may open suddenly in the life. Yet, believing in
God, anguish cannot be despair, nor guilt perdition. I feel
sure that I have never wilfully chosen, and that my life has
been docile to such truth as was shown it. In an environment
like mine, what may have seemed too lofty or ambitious in
my character was absolutely needed to keep the heart from
breaking and enthusiasm from extinction.'

Such Egoism as this, though lacking the angel grace of unconsciousness, has a stoical grandeur that commands respect. Indeed, in all that Margaret spoke, wrote, or did, no cynic could detect the taint of meanness. Her elation came not from opium fumes of vanity, inhaled in close chambers of conceit, but from the stimulus of sunshine, fresh breezes, and swift movement upon the winged steed of poesy. Her existence was bright with romantic interest to herself. There was an amplitude and elevation in her aim, which were worthy, as she felt, of human honor and of heavenly aid; and she was buoyed up by a courageous good-will, amidst all evils, that she knew would have been recognized as heroic in the chivalric times, when "every morning brought a noble chance." Neither was her self-regard of an engrossing temper. On the contrary, the sense of personal dignity taught her the worth of the lowliest human being, and her intense desire for harmonious conditions quickened a boundless compassion for the squalid, downcast, and drudging multitude. She aspired to live in majestic fulness of benignant and joyful activity, leaving a track of light with every footstep; and, like the radiant Iduna, bearing to man the golden apples of immortality, she would have made each meeting with her fellows rich with some boon that should never fade, but brighten in bloom forever.

This characteristic self-esteem determined the quality of Margaret's influence, which was singularly penetrating, and most beneficent where most deeply and continuously felt. Chance acquaintance with her, like a breath from the tropics, might have prematurely burst the buds of feeling in sensitive hearts, leaving after blight and barrenness. Natures, small in compass and of fragile substance, might have been distorted and shattered by attempts to mould themselves on her grand model. And in her seeming unchartered impulses,--whose latent law was honorable integrity,--eccentric spirits might have found encouragement for capricious license. Her morbid subjectivity, too, might, by contagion, have affected others with undue self-consciousness. And, finally, even intimate friends might have been tempted, by her flattering love, to exaggerate their own importance, until they recognized that her regard for them was but one niche in a Pantheon at whose every shrine she offered incense. But these ill effects were superficial accidents. The peculiarity of her power was to make all who were in concert with her feel the miracle of existence. She lived herself with such concentrated force in the moments, that she was always effulgent with thought and affection,--with conscience, courage, resource, decision, a penetrating and forecasting wisdom. Hence, to associates, her presence seemed to touch even common scenes and drudging cares with splendor, as when, through the scud of a rain-storm, sunbeams break from serene blue openings, crowning familiar things with sudden glory. By manifold sympathies, yet central unity, she seemed in herself to be a goodly company, and her words and deeds imparted the virtue of a collective life. So tender was her affection, that, like a guardian genius, she made her friends' souls her own, and identified herself with their fortunes; and yet, so pure and high withal was her justice, that, in her recognition of their past success and present claims, there came a summons for fresh endeavor after the perfect. The very thought of her roused manliness to emulate the vigorous freedom, with which one was assured, that wherever placed she was that instant acting; and the mere mention of her name was an inspiration of magnanimity, and faithfulness, and truth.

'"Sincere has been their striving; great their love,"

'is a sufficient apology for any life,' wrote Margaret; and how preëminently were these words descriptive of herself. Hers was indeed

"The equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will,
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

This indomitable aspiration found utterance in the following verses, on

'SUB ROSA CRUX.

'In times of old, as we are told,
When men more childlike at the feet
Of Jesus sat than now,
A chivalry was known, more bold
Than ours, and yet of stricter vow,
And worship more complete.

'Knights of the Rosy Cross! they bore
Its weight within the breast, but wore
Without the sign, in glistening ruby bright.
The gall and vinegar they drank alone,
But to the world at large would only own
The wine of faith, sparkling with rosy light.

'They knew the secret of the sacred oil,
Which, poured upon the prophet's head,
Could keep him wise and pure for aye,
Apart from all that might distract or soil;
With this their lamps they fed,
Which burn in their sepulchral shrines,
Unfading night and day.

'The pass-word now is lost
To that initiation full and free;
Daily we pay the cost
Of our slow schooling for divine degree.
We know no means to feed an undying lamp,
Our lights go out in every wind and damp.

'We wear the cross of Ebony and Gold,
Upon a dark back-ground a form of light,
A heavenly hope within a bosom cold,
A starry promise in a frequent night;
And oft the dying lamp must trim again,
For we are conscious, thoughtful, striving men.

'Yet be we faithful to this present trust,
Clasp to a heart resigned this faithful Must;
Though deepest dark our efforts should enfold,
Unwearied mine to find the vein of gold;
Forget not oft to waft the prayer on high;--
The rosy dawn again shall fill the sky.

'And by that lovely light all truth revealed,--
The cherished forms, which sad distrust concealed,
Transfigured, yet the same, will round us stand,
The kindred angels of a faithful band;
Ruby and ebon cross then cast aside,
No lamp more needed, for the night has died.

'"Be to the best thou knowest ever true,"
Is all the creed.
Then be thy talisman of rosy hue,
Or fenced with thorns, that wearing, thou must bleed,
Or, gentle pledge of love's prophetic view,
The faithful steps it will securely lead.

'Happy are all who reach that distant shore,
And bathe in heavenly day;
Happiest are those who high the banner bore,
To marshal others on the way,
Or waited for them, fainting and way-worn,
By burthens overborne.'

[Footnote A: This sentence was written before I was aware that Margaret, as will be seen hereafter, had used the same symbol to describe Madame Sand. The first impulse, of course, when I discovered this coincidence, was to strike out the above passage; yet, on second thought, I have retained it, as indicating an actual resemblance between these two grand women. In Margaret, however, the benediction of their noble-hearted sister, Elizabeth Barrett, had already been fulfilled; for she to "woman's claim" had ever joined

"the angel-grace Of a pure genius sanctified from blame."]

[Footnote B: Novalis.]

NEW YORK.

JOURNALS, LETTERS, &c.

* * * * *

"How much, preventing God, how much. I owe
To the defences thou hast round me set!
Example, Custom, Fear, Occasion slow,--
These scorned bondsmen were my parapet.
I dare not peep over this parapet,
To gauge with glance the roaring gulf below,
The depths of sin to which I had descended,
Had not these me against myself defended."

"Di tè, finor, chiesto non hai severa
Ragione a tè; di sua virtù non cade
Sospetto in cor conscio a se stesso."

ALFIERI.

"He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend;
Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure
For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them.
Where sorrow's held intrusive, and turned out,
There wisdom, will not enter, nor true power,
Nor aught that dignifies humanity."

TAYLOR.

"That time of year thou may'st in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day,
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,--
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie;
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by."

SHAKSPEARE. [Sonnet lxxiii.]

"Aber zufrieden mit stillerem Ruhme,
Brechen die Frauen des Augenblick's Blume,
Nähren sie sorgsam mit liebendem Fleiss,
Freier in ihrem gebundenen Wirken,
Reicher als er in des Wissens Bezirken
Und in der Dichtung unendlichem Kreiz."

SCHILLER.

"Not like to like, but like in difference;
Yet in the long years liker must they grow,--
The man be more of woman, she of man;
He gain in sweetness and in moral height,
Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world;
She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care;
More as the double-natured poet each;
Till at the last she set herself to man,
Like perfect music unto noble words."

TENNYSON.

VII.

NEW YORK

* * * * *

LEAVING HOME.

Incessant exertion in teaching and writing, added to pecuniary anxieties and domestic cares, had so exhausted Margaret's energy, in 1844, that she felt a craving for fresh interests, and resolved to seek an entire change of scene amid freer fields of action.

'The tax on my mind is such,' she writes,

'and I am so unwell, that I can scarcely keep up the spring of
my spirits, and sometimes fear that I cannot go through with
the engagements of the winter. But I have never stopped yet
in fulfilling what I have undertaken, and hope I shall not be
compelled to now. How farcical seems the preparation needed to
gain a few moments' life; yet just so the plant works all the
year round for a few days' flower.'

But in brighter mood she says, again:--

'I congratulate myself that I persisted, against every
persuasion, in doing all I could last winter; for now I am and
shall be free from debt, and I look on the position of debtor
with a dread worthy of some respectable Dutch burgomaster.
My little plans for others, too, have succeeded; our small
household is well arranged, and all goes smoothly as a
wheel turns round. Mother, moreover, has learned not to
be over-anxious when I suffer, so that I am not obliged to
suppress my feelings when it is best to yield to them. Thus,
having more calmness, I feel often that a sweet serenity is
breathed through every trifling duty. I am truly grateful for
being enabled to fulfil obligations which to some might seem
humble, but which to me are sacred.'

And in mid-summer comes this pleasant picture:--

'Every day, I rose and attended to the many little calls which
are always on me, and which have been more of late. Then,
about eleven, I would sit down to write, at my window, close
to which is the apple-tree, lately full of blossoms, and now
of yellow birds. Opposite me was Del Sarto's Madonna; behind
me Silenus, holding in his arms the infant Pan. I felt very
content with my pen, my daily bouquet, and my yellow birds.
About five I would go out and walk till dark; then would
arrive my proofs, like crabbed old guardians, coming to tea
every night. So passed each day. The 23d of May, my birth-day,
about one o'clock, I wrote the last line of my little book;[A]
then I went to Mount Auburn, and walked gently among the
graves.'

As the brothers had now left college, and had entered or were entering upon professional and commercial life, while the sister was married, and the mother felt calls to visit in turn her scattered children, it was determined to break up the "Home." 'As a family,' Margaret writes,

'we are henceforth to be parted. But though for months I had
been preparing for this separation, the last moments were very
sad. Such tears are childish tears, I know, and belie a deeper
wisdom. It is foolish in me to be so anxious about my family.
As I went along, it seemed as if all I did was for God's sake;
but if it had been, could I now thus fear? My relations to
them are altogether fair, so far as they go. As to their being
no more to me than others of my kind, there is surely a mystic
thrill betwixt children of one mother, which can never cease
to be felt till the soul is quite born anew. The earthly
family is the scaffold whereby we build the spiritual one. The
glimpses we here obtain of what such relations should be are
to me an earnest that the family is of Divine Order, and not a
mere school of preparation. And in the state of perfect being
which we call Heaven, I am assured that family ties will
attain to that glorified beauty of harmonious adaptation,
which stellar groups in the pure blue typify.'

Margaret's admirable fidelity, as daughter and sister,--amidst her incessant literary pursuits, and her far-reaching friendships,--can be justly appreciated by those only who were in her confidence; but from the following slight sketches generous hearts can readily infer what was the quality of her home-affections.

'Mother writes from Canton that my dear old grandmother is
dead. I regret that you never saw her. She was a picture of
primitive piety, as she sat holding the "Saint's Rest" in her
hand, with her bowed, trembling figure, and her emphatic nods,
and her sweet blue eyes. They were bright to the last, though
she was ninety. It is a great loss to mother, who felt a large
place warmed in her heart by the fond and grateful love of
this aged parent.'

'We cannot be sufficiently grateful for our mother,--so so
fair a blossom of the white amaranth; truly to us a mother
in this, that we can venerate her piety. Our relations to her
have known no jar. Nothing vulgar has sullied them; and in
this respect life has been truly domesticated. Indeed, when I
compare my lot with others, it seems to have had a more than
usual likeness to home; for relations have been as noble
as sincerity could make them, and there has been a frequent
breath of refined affection, with its sweet courtesies. Mother
thanks God in her prayers for "all the acts of mutual love
which have been permitted;" and looking back, I see that these
have really been many. I do not recognize this, as the days
pass, for to my desires life would be such a flower-chain of
symbols, that what is done seems very scanty, and the thread
shows too much.

'She has just brought me a little bouquet. Her flowers have
suffered greatly by my neglect, when I would be engrossed
by other things in her absences. But, not to be disgusted or
deterred, whenever she can glean one pretty enough, she brings
it to me. Here is the bouquet,--a very delicate rose, with its
half-blown bud, heliotrope, geranium, lady-pea, heart's-ease;
all sweet-scented flowers! Moved by their beauty, I wrote a
short note, to which this is the reply. Just like herself![B]

'"I should not love my flowers if they did not put forth all
the strength they have, in gratitude for your preserving care,
last winter, and your wasted feelings over the unavoidable
effects of the frost, that came so unexpectedly to nip their
budding beauties. I appreciate all you have done, knowing
at what cost any plant must be nourished by one who sows in
fields more precious than those opened, in early life, to my
culture. One must have grown up with flowers, and found joy
and sweetness in them, amidst disagreeable occupations, to
take delight in their whole existence as I do. They have long
had power to bring me into harmony with the Creator, and to
soothe almost any irritation. Therefore I understand your love
for these beautiful things, and it gives me real pleasure to
procure them for you.

'"You have done everything that the most affectionate and
loving daughter could, under all circumstances. My faith in
your generous desire to increase my happiness is founded on
the knowledge I have gained of your disposition, through your
whole life. I should ask your sympathy and aid, whenever it
could be available, knowing that you would give it first to
me. Waste no thought on neglected duties. I know of none.
Let us pursue our appointed paths, aiding each other in rough
places; and if I live to need the being led by the hand,
I always feel that you will perform this office wisely and
tenderly. We shall ever have perfect peace between us. Yours,
in all love."'

Margaret adds:--

'It has been, and still is, hard for me to give up the thought
of serenity, and freedom from toil and care, for mother,
in the evening of a day which has been all one work of
disinterested love. But I am now confident that she will learn
from every trial its lesson; and if I cannot be her protector,
I can be at least her counsellor and soother.'

From the less private parts of Margaret's correspondence with the younger members of the family, some passages may be selected, as attesting her quick and penetrating sympathy, her strict truth, and influential wisdom. They may be fitly prefaced by these few but emphatic words from a letter of one of her brothers:--

"I was much impressed, during my childhood, at Groton, with
an incident that first disclosed to me the tenderness of
Margaret's character. I had always viewed her as a being
of different nature from myself, to whose altitudes of
intellectual life I had no thought of ascending. She had been
absent during the winter, and on her return asked me for some
account of my experiences. Supposing that she could not enter
into such insignificant details, I was not frank or warm in
my confidence, though I gave no reason for my reserve; and the
matter had passed from my mind, when our mother told me that
Margaret had shed tears, because I seemed to heed so little
her sisterly sympathy. 'Tears from one so learned,' thought I,
'for the sake of one so inferior!' Afterwards, my heart opened
to her, as to no earthly friend.

"The characteristic trait of Margaret, to which all
her talents and acquirements were subordinate, was
sympathy,--universal sympathy. She had that large intelligence
and magnanimity which enabled her to comprehend the struggles
and triumphs of every form of character. Loving all about her,
whether rich or poor, rude or cultivated, as equally formed
after a Divine Original, with an equal birth-right of immortal
growth, she regarded rather their aspirations than their
accomplishments. And this was the source of her marvellous
influence. Those who had never thought of their own destiny,
nor put faith in their own faculties, found in her society not
so much a display of her gifts, as surprising discoveries of
their own. She revealed to them the truth, that all can be
noble by fidelity to the highest self. She appreciated, with
delicate tenderness, each one's peculiar trials, and, while
never attempting to make the unhappy feel that their miseries
were unreal, she pointed out the compensations of their
lot, and taught them how to live above misfortune. She had
consolation and advice for every one in trouble, and wrote
long letters to many friends, at the expense not only of
precious time, but of physical pain.

"When now, with the experience of a man, I look back upon her
wise guardianship over our childhood, her indefatigable labors
for our education, her constant supervision in our family
affairs, her minute instructions as to the management of
multifarious details, her painful conscientiousness in every
duty; and then reflect on her native inaptitude and even
disgust for practical affairs, on her sacrifice,--in the
very flower of her genius,--of her favorite pursuits, on her
incessant drudgery and waste of health, on her patient
bearing of burdens, and courageous conflict with difficult
circumstances, her character stands before me as heroic."

It was to this brother that Margaret wrote as follows:--

'It is a great pleasure to me to give you this book; both that
I have a brother whom I think worthy to value it, and that
I can give him something worthy to be valued more and more
through all his life. Whatever height we may attain in
knowledge, whatever facility in the expression of thoughts,
will only enable us to do more justice to what is drawn
from so deep a source of faith and intellect, and arrayed,
oftentimes, in the fairest hues of nature. Yet it may not be
well for a young mind to dwell too near one tuned to so high
a pitch as this writer, lest, by trying to come into concord
with him, the natural tones be overstrained, and the strings
weakened by untimely pressure. Do not attempt, therefore, to
read this book through, but keep it with you, and when the
spirit is fresh and earnest turn to it. It is full of the
tide-marks of great thoughts, but these can be understood
by one only who has gained, by experience, some knowledge of
these tides. The ancient sages knew how to greet a brother who
had consecrated his life to thought, and was never disturbed
from his purpose by a lower aim. But it is only to those
perfected in purity that Pythagoras can show a golden thigh.

'One word as to your late readings. They came in a timely way
to admonish you, amidst mere disciplines, as to the future
uses of such disciplines. But systems of philosophy are mere
pictures to him, who has not yet learned how to systematize.
From an inward opening of your nature these knowledges must
begin to be evolved, ere you can apprehend aught beyond
their beauty, as revealed in the mind of another. Study in a
reverent and patient spirit, blessing the day that leads you
the least step onward. Do not ride hobbies. Do not hasten
to conclusions. Be not coldly sceptical towards any thinker,
neither credulous of his views. A man, whose mind is full of
error, may give us the genial sense of truth, as a tropical
sun, while it rears crocodiles, yet ripens the wine of the
palm-tree.

'To turn again to my Ancients: while they believed in
self-reliance with a force little known in our day, they
dreaded no pains of initiation, but fitted themselves for
intelligent recognition of the truths on which our being is
based, by slow gradations of travel, study, speech, silence,
bravery, and patience. That so it may be with you, dear ----,
hopes your sister and friend.'

A few extracts from family letters written at different times, and under various conditions, may be added.

'I read with great interest the papers you left with me. The
picture and the emotions suggested are genuine. The youthful
figure, no doubt, stands portress at the gate of Infinite
Beauty; yet I would say to one I loved as I do you, do not
waste these emotions, nor the occasions which excite them.
There is danger of prodigality,--of lavishing the best
treasures of the breast on objects that cannot be the
permanent ones. It is true, that whatever thought is awakened
in the mind becomes truly ours; but it is a great happiness
to owe these influences to a cause so proportioned to our
strength as to grow with it. I say this merely because I
fear that the virginity of heart which I believe essential
to feeling a real love, in all its force and purity, may
be endangered by too careless excursions into the realms of
fancy.'

* * * * *

'It is told us, we should pray, "lead us not into temptation;"
and I agree. Yet I think it cannot be, that, with a good
disposition, and the means you have had to form your mind and
discern a higher standard, your conduct or happiness can be
so dependent on circumstances, as you seem to think. I never
advised your taking a course which would blunt your finer
powers and I do not believe that winning the means of
pecuniary independence need do so. I have not found that it
does, in my own case, placed at much greater disadvantage than
you are. I have never considered, either, that there was
any misfortune in your lot. Health, good abilities, and a
well-placed youth, form a union of advantages possessed by
few, and which leaves you little excuse for fault or failure.
And so to your better genius and the instruction of the One
Wise, I commend you.'

* * * * *

'It gave me great pleasure to get your last letter, for these
little impromptu effusions are the genuine letters. I rejoice
that man and nature seem harmonious to you, and that the heart
beats in unison with the voices of Spring. May all that is
manly, sincere, and pure, in your wishes, be realized! Obliged
to live myself without the sanctuary of the central relations,
yet feeling I must still not despair, nor fail to profit by
the precious gifts of life, while "leaning upon our Father's
hand," I still rejoice, if any one can, in the true temper,
and with well-founded hopes, secure a greater completeness of
earthly existence. This fortune is as likely to be yours, as
any one's I know. It seems to me dangerous, however, to meddle
with the future. I never lay my hand on it to grasp it with
impunity.'

* * * * *

'Of late I have often thought of you with strong yearnings of
affection and desire to see you. It would seem to me, also,
that I had not devoted myself to you enough, if I were not
conscious that by any more attention to the absent than I have
paid, I should have missed the needed instructions from the
present. And I feel that any bond of true value will endure
necessary neglect.'

* * * * *