Chapter IX: HOMEWARD By W.H. Channing (5)

'There is almost too much of bitter mixed in the cup of life.
You say religion is a mere sentiment with you, and that if
you are disappointed in your first, your very first hopes and
plans, you do not know whether you shall be able to act well.
I do not myself see how a reflecting soul can endure the
passage through life, except by confidence in a Power that
must at last order all things right, and the resolution that
it shall not be our own fault if we are not happy,--that we
will resolutely deserve to be happy. There are many bright
glimpses in life, many still hours; much worthy toil, some
deep and noble joys; but, then, there are so many, and such
long, intervals, when we are kept from all we want, and must
perish but for such thoughts.'

* * * * *

'You need not fear, dear ----, my doing anything to chill
you. I am only too glad of the pure happiness you so sweetly
describe. I well understand what you say of its invigorating
you for every enterprise. I was always sure it would be so
with me,--that resigned, I could do well, but happy I could
do excellently. Happiness must, with the well-born, expand
the generous affections towards all men, and invigorate one to
deserve what the gods have given.'

Margaret's charities and courtesies were not limited to her kindred. She fell, at once, into agreeable relations with her domestics, became their confidant, teacher, and helper, studied their characters, consulted their convenience, warned them of their dangers or weaknesses, and rejoiced to gratify their worthy tastes; and, in return, no lady could receive, from servants, more punctual or hearty attendance. She knew how to command and how to persuade, and her sympathy was perfect. They felt the power of her mind, her hardy directness, prompt judgment, decision and fertility of resource, and liked to aid one who knew so well her own wants. 'Around my path,' she writes,

'how much humble love continually flows. These every-day and
lowly friends never forget my wishes, never censure my
whims, make no demands on me, and load me with gifts and
uncomplaining service. Though sometimes forgetful of their
claims, I try to make it up when we do meet, and I trust give
little pain as I pass along this world.'

Even in extreme cases of debasement she found more to admire than to contemn, and won the confidence of the fallen by manifesting her real respect. "There was in my family," writes a friend, "a very handsome young girl, who had been vicious in her habits, and so enamored of one of her lovers, that when he deserted her, she attempted to drown herself. She was rescued, and some good people were eager to reform her life. While she was engaged in housework for us, Margaret saw her, and one day asked ---- if she could not help her. ---- replied: 'No! for should I begin to talk with her, I should show my consciousness of her history so much as to be painful.' Margaret was very indignant at this weakness. Said she,

'This girl is taken away, you know, from all her objects of
interest, and must feel her life vacant and dreary. Her mind
should be employed; she should be made to feel her powers.'

It was plain that if Margaret had been near her, she would have devoted herself at once to her education and reestablishment."

About the time of breaking up their home, Margaret thus expressed, to one of her brothers, her hopes and plans.

'You wish, dear ----, that I was not obliged to toil and spin,
but could live, for a while, like the lilies. I wish so,
too, for life has fatigued me, my strength is little, and the
present state of my mind demands repose and refreshment,
that it may ripen some fruit worthy of the long and deep
experiences through which I have passed. I do not regret that
I have shared the labors and cares of the suffering million,
and have acquired a feeling sense of the conditions under
which the Divine has appointed the development of the human.
Yet, if our family affairs could now be so arranged, that I
might be tolerably tranquil for the next six or eight years,
I should go out of life better satisfied with the page I have
turned in it, than I shall if I must still toil on. A noble
career is yet before me, if I can be unimpeded by cares. I
have given almost all my young energies to personal relations;
but, at present, I feel inclined to impel the general stream
of thought. Let my nearest friends also wish that I should now
take share in more public life.'

[Footnote A: Summer on the Lakes.]

[Footnote B: The editor must offer as excuse for printing, without permission asked, this note, found carefully preserved among Margaret's papers, that he knew no other way of so truly indicating the relation between mother and daughter. This lily is eloquent of the valley where it grew. W.H.C.]

THE HIGHLANDS.

Seeking thus, at once, expansion and rest in new employments, Margaret determined, in the autumn of 1844, to accept a liberal offer of Messrs. Greeley and McElrath, to become a constant contributor to the New York Tribune. But before entering upon her new duties, she found relaxation, for a few weeks, amid the grand scenery of the Hudson. In October, she writes from Fishkill Landing:--

'Can I find words to tell you how I enjoy being here,
encircled by the majestic beauty of these mountains? I felt
regret, indeed, in bidding farewell to Boston, so many
marks of affection were shown me at the last, and so many
friendships, true if imperfect, were left behind. But now I am
glad to feel enfranchized in the society of Nature. I have a
well-ordered, quiet house to dwell in, with nobody's humors
to consult but my own. From my windows I see over the tops of
variegated trees the river, with its purple heights beyond,
and a few moments' walk brings me to the lovely shore, where
sails are gliding continually by, and the huge steamers sweep
past with echoing tread, and a train of waves, whose rush
relieves the monotone of the ripples. In the country behind us
are mountain-paths, and lonely glens, with gurgling streams,
and many-voiced water-falls. And over all are spread the
gorgeous hues of autumn.'

And again:--

'"From the brain of the purple mountain" flows forth cheer
to my somewhat weary mind. I feel refreshed amid these bolder
shapes of nature. Mere gentle and winning landscapes are not
enough. How I wish my birth had been cast among the sources
of the streams, where the voice of hidden torrents is heard
by night, and the eagle soars, and the thunder resounds in
prolonged peals, and wide blue shadows fall like brooding
wings across the valleys! Amid such scenes, I expand and feel
at home. All the fine days I spend among the mountain passes,
along the mountain brooks, or beside the stately river. I
enjoy just the tranquil happiness I need in communion with
this fair grandeur.'

And, again:--

'The boldness, sweetness, and variety here, are just what
I like. I could pass the autumn in watching the exquisite
changes of light and shade on the heights across the river.
How idle to pretend that one could live and write as well amid
fallow flat fields! This majesty, this calm splendor, could
not but exhilarate the mind, and make it nobly free and
plastic.'

These few weeks among the Highlands,--spent mostly in the open air, under October's golden sunshine, the slumberous softness of the Indian summer, or the brilliant, breezy skies of November,--were an important era for Margaret. She had--

"lost the dream of Doing
And the other dream of Done;
The first spring in the pursuing,
The first pride in the Begun,
First recoil from incompleteness in the face of what is won."

But she was striving, also, to use her own words, 'to be patient to the very depths of the heart, to expect no hasty realizations, not to make her own plan her law of life, but to learn the law and plan of God.' She adds, however:--

'What heaven it must be to have the happy sense of
accomplishing something, and to feel the glow of action
without exhausted weariness! Surely the race would have worn
itself out by corrosion, if men in all ages had suffered, as
we now do, from the consciousness of an unattained Ideal.'

Extracts from journals will best reveal her state of mind.

'I have a dim consciousness of what the terrible experiences
must be by which the free poetic element is harmonized with
the spirit of religion. In their essence and their end these
are one, but rarely in actual existence. I would keep what
was pure and noble in my old native freedom, with that
consciousness of falling below the best convictions which now
binds me to the basest of mankind, and find some new truth
that shall reconcile and unite them. Once it seemed to
me, that my heart was so capable of goodness, my mind of
clearness, that all should acknowledge and claim me as a
friend. But now I see that these impulses were prophetic of a
yet distant period. The "intensity" of passion, which so often
unfits me for life, or, rather, for _life here_, is to
be moderated, not into dulness or languor, but a gentler,
steadier energy.'

'The stateliest, strongest vessel must sometimes be brought
into port to rent. If she will not submit to be fastened to
the dock, stripped of her rigging, and scrutinized by unwashed
artificers, she may spring a leak when riding most proudly
on the subject wave. Norway fir nor English oak can resist
forever the insidious assaults of the seemingly conquered
ocean. The man who clears the barnacles from the keel is more
essential than he who hoists the pennant on the lofty mast.'

* * * * *

'A week of more suffering than I have had for a long
time,--from Sunday to Sunday,--headache night and day! And not
only there has been no respite, but it has been fixed in one
spot--between the eyebrows!--what does that promise?--till it
grew real torture. Then it has been depressing to be able to
do so little, when there was so much I had at heart to do.
It seems that the black and white guardians, depicted on the
Etrurian monuments, and in many a legend, are always fighting
for my life. Whenever I have any cherished purpose, either
outward obstacles swarm around, which the hand that would be
drawing beautiful lines must be always busy in brushing away,
or comes this great vulture, and fastens his iron talons on
the brain.

'But at such times the soul rises up, like some fair child in
whom sleep has been mistaken for death, a living flower in
the dark tomb. He casts aside his shrouds and bands, rosy and
fresh from the long trance, undismayed, not seeing how to get
out, yet sure there is a way.

'I think the black jailer laughs now, hoping that while I
want to show that Woman can have the free, full action of
intellect, he will prove in my own self that she has not
physical force to bear it. Indeed, I am too poor an example,
and do wish I was bodily strong and fair. Yet, I will not be
turned from the deeper convictions.'

'Driven from home to home, as a Renouncer, I gain the poetry
of each. Keys of gold, silver, iron, lead, are in my casket.
Though no one loves me as I would be loved, I yet love many
well enough to see into their eventual beauty. Meanwhile, I
have no fetters, and when one perceives how others are bound
in false relations, this surely should be regarded as a
privilege. And so varied have been my sympathies, that this
isolation will not, I trust, make me cold, ignorant, nor
partial. My history presents much superficial, temporary
tragedy. The Woman in me kneels and weeps in tender rapture;
the Man in me rushes forth, but only to be baffled. Yet the
time will come, when, from the union of this tragic king and
queen, shall be born a radiant sovereign self.'

* * * * *

'I have quite a desire to try my powers in a narrative poem;
but my head teems with plans, of which there will be time
for very few only to take form. Milton, it is said, made
for himself a list of a hundred subjects for dramas, and the
recorder of the fact seems to think this many. I think it very
few, so filled is life with innumerable themes.'

* * * * *

'_Sunday Evening._--I have employed some hours of the day,
with great satisfaction, in copying the Poet's Dreams from the
Pentameron of Landor. I do not often have time for such slow,
pleasing labor. I have thus imprinted the words in my mind, so
that they will often recur in their original beauty.

'I have added three sonnets of Petrarca, all written after the
death of Laura. They are among his noblest, all pertinent to
the subject, and giving three aspects of that one mood. The
last lines of the last sonnet are a fit motto for Boccaccio's
dream.

'In copying both together, I find the prose of the Englishman
worthy of the verse of the Italian. It is a happiness to see
such marble beauty in the halls of a contemporary.

'How fine it is to see the terms "onesto," "gentile," used in
their original sense and force.

'Soft, solemn day!
Where earth and heaven together seem to meet,
I have been blest to greet
From human thought a kindred sway;
In thought these stood
So near the simple Good,
That what we nobleness and honor call,
They viewed as honesty, the common dower of all.'

Margaret was reading, in these weeks, the Four Books of Confucius, the Desatir, some of Taylor's translations from the Greek, a work on Scandinavian Mythology, Moehler's Symbolism, Fourier's Noveau Monde Industriel, and Landor's Pentameron,--but she says, in her journal,

'No book is good enough to read in the open air, among these
mountains; even the best seem partial, civic, limiting,
instead of being, as man's voice should be, a tone higher than
nature's.'

And again:--

'This morning came ----'s letter, announcing Sterling's
death:--

'"Weep for Dedalus all that is fairest."

'The news was very sad: Sterling did so earnestly wish to do
a man's work, and had done so small a portion of his own. This
made me feel how fast my years are flitting by, and nothing
done. Yet these few beautiful days of leisure I cannot resolve
to give at all to work. I want absolute rest, to let the mind
lie fallow, to keep my whole nature open to the influx of
truth.'

At this very time, however, she was longing to write with full freedom and power. 'Formerly,' she says,

'the pen did not seem to me an instrument capable of
expressing the spirit of a life like mine. An enchanter's
mirror, on which, with a word, could be made to rise all
apparitions of the universe, grouped in new relations; a magic
ring, that could transport the wearer, himself invisible, into
each region of grandeur or beauty; a divining-rod, to tell
where lie the secret fountains of refreshment; a wand, to
invoke elemental spirits;--only such as these seemed fit to
embody one's thought with sufficient swiftness and force. In
earlier years I aspired to wield the sceptre or the lyre; for
I loved with wise design and irresistible command to mould
many to one purpose, and it seemed all that man could desire
to breathe in music and speak in words, the harmonies of the
universe. But the golden lyre was not given to my hand, and I
am but the prophecy of a poet. Let me use, then, the slow pen.
I will make no formal vow to the long-scorned Muse; I assume
no garland; I dare not even dedicate myself as a novice; I
can promise neither patience nor energy:--but I will court
excellence, so far as an humble heart and open eye can merit
it, and, if I may gradually grow to some degree of worthiness
in this mode of expression, I shall be grateful.'

WOMAN.

It was on "Woman in the Nineteenth Century" that Margaret was now testing her power as a writer. 'I have finished the pamphlet,' she writes, 'though the last day it kept spinning out beneath my hand. After taking a long walk, early one most exhilarating morning, I sat down to work, and did not give it the last stroke till near nine in the evening. Then I felt a delightful glow, as if I had put a good deal of my true life in it, and as if, should I go away now, the measure of my foot-print would be left on the earth.'

A few extracts from her manuscripts upon this subject may be of interest, as indicating the spirit and aim with which she wrote:--

'To those of us who hate emphasis and exaggeration, who
believe that whatever is good of its kind is good, who shrink
from love of excitement and love of sway, who, while ready for
duties of many kinds, dislike pledges and bonds to any,--this
talk about "Woman's Sphere," "Woman's Mission," and all such
phrases as mark the present consciousness of an impending
transition from old conventions to greater freedom, are most
repulsive. And it demands some valor to lift one's head amidst
the shower of public squibs, private sneers, anger, scorn,
derision, called out by the demand that women should be put on
a par with their brethren, legally and politically; that they
should hold property not by permission but by right, and that
they should take an active part in all great movements. But
though, with Mignon, we are prompted to characterize heaven as
the place where

"Sie fragen nicht nach Mann nie Weib,"

yet it is plain that we must face this agitation; and beyond
the dull clouds overhead hangs in the horizon Venus, as
morning-star, no less fair, though of more melting beauty,
than the glorious Jupiter, who shares with her the watch.

* * * * *

'The full, free expression of feeling must be rare, for this
book of Bettina Brentano's to produce such an effect. Men who
have lived in the society of women all their days, seem never
before to have dreamed of their nature; they are filled with
wonderment and delight at these revelations, and because
they see the woman, fancy her a genius. But in truth her
inspiration is nowise extraordinary; and I have letters from
various friends, lying unnoticed in my portfolio, which are
quite as beautiful. For one, I think that these veins of gold
should pass in secret through the earth, inaccessible to all
who will not take the trouble to mine for them. I do not like
Bettina for publishing her heart, and am ready to repeat to
her Serlo's reproof to Aurelia.'

* * * * *

'How terrible must be the tragedy of a woman who awakes to
find that she has given herself wholly to a person for whom
she is not eternally fitted! I cannot look on marriage as on
the other experiments of life: it is the one grand type that
should be kept forever sacred. There are two kinds of love
experienced by high and rich souls. The first seeks, according
to Plato's myth, another half, as being not entire in itself,
but needing a kindred nature to unlock its secret chambers
of emotion, and to act with quickening influence on all its
powers, by full harmony of senses, affections, intellect,
will; the second is purely ideal, beholding in its object
divine perfection, and delighting in it only in degree as
it symbolizes the essential good. But why is not this love
steadily directed to the Central Spirit, since in no form,
however suggestive in beauty, can God be fully revealed?
Love's delusion is owing to one of man's most godlike
qualities,--the earnestness with which he would concentrate
his whole being, and thus experience the Now of the I Am.
Yet the noblest are not long deluded; they love really the
Infinite Beauty, though they may still keep before them a
human form, as the Isis, who promises hereafter a seat at the
golden tables. How high is Michel Angelo's love, for instance,
compared with Petrarch's! Petrarch longs, languishes; and
it is only after the death of Laura that his muse puts on
celestial plumage. But Michel always soars; his love is a
stairway to the heavens.

* * * * *

'Might not we women do something in regard to this Texas
Annexation project? I have never felt that I had any call to
take part in public affairs before; but this is a great
moral question, and we have an obvious right to express our
convictions. I should like to convene meetings of the women
everywhere, and take our stand.

* * * * *

'Had Christendom but been true to its standard, while
accommodating its modes of operation to the calls of
successive times, woman would now have not only equal _power_
with man,--for of that omnipotent nature will never permit
her to be defrauded,--but a _chartered_ power, too fully
recognized to be abused. Indeed, all that is wanting is, that
man should prove his own freedom by making her free. Let
him abandon conventional restriction, as a vestige of that
Oriental barbarity which confined woman to a seraglio. Let
him trust her entirely, and give her every privilege already
acquired for himself,--elective franchise, tenure of property,
liberty to speak in public assemblies, &c.

'Nature has pointed out her ordinary sphere by the
circumstances of her physical existence. She cannot wander
far. If here and there the gods send their missives through
women, as through men, let them speak without remonstrance.
In no age have men been able wholly to hinder them. A Deborah
must always be a spiritual mother in Israel; a Corinna may
be excluded from the Olympic games, yet all men will hear her
song, and a Pindar sit at her feet. It is man's fault that
there ever were Aspasias and Ninons. These exquisite forms
were intended for the shrines of virtue.

'Neither need men fear to lose their domestic deities. Woman
is born for love, and it is impossible to turn her from
seeking it. Men should deserve her love as an inheritance,
rather than seize and guard it like a prey. Were they noble,
they would strive rather not to be loved too much, and to turn
her from idolatry to the true, the only Love. Then, children
of one Father, they could not err, nor misconceive one
another.

'Society is now so complex, that it is no longer possible to
educate woman merely as woman; the tasks which come to her
hand are so various, and so large a proportion of women are
thrown entirely upon their own resources. I admit that this
is not their state of perfect development; but it seems as
if heaven, having so long issued its edict in poetry and
religion, without securing intelligent obedience, now
commanded the world in prose, to take a high and rational
view. The lesson reads to me thus:--

'Sex, like rank, wealth, beauty, or talent, is but an accident
of birth. As you would not educate a soul to be an aristocrat,
so do not to be a woman. A general regard to her usual sphere
is dictated in the economy of nature. You need never enforce
these provisions rigorously. Achilles had long plied the
distaff as a princess, yet, at first sight of a sword, he
seized it. So with woman, one hour of love would teach her
more of her proper relations, than all your formulas and
conventions. Express your views, men, of what you _seek_ in
woman: thus best do you give them laws. Learn, women, what you
should _demand_ of men: thus only can they become themselves.
Turn both from the contemplation of what is merely phenomenal
in your existence, to your permanent life as souls. Man, do
not prescribe how the Divine shall display itself in woman.
Woman, do not expect to see all of God in man. Fellow-pilgrims
and helpmeets are ye, Apollo and Diana, twins of one heavenly
birth, both beneficent, and both armed. Man, fear not to yield
to woman's hand both the quiver and the lyre; for if her urn
be filled with light, she will use both to the glory of
God. There is but one doctrine for ye both, and that is the
doctrine of the SOUL.

Thus, in communion with the serene loveliness of mother-earth, and inspired with memories of Isis and Ceres, of Minerva and Freia, and all the commanding forms beneath which earlier ages symbolized their sense of the Divine Spirit in woman, Margaret cherished visions of the future, and responded with full heart to the poet's prophecy:--

"Then comes the statelier Eden back to men;
Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste and calm;
Then springs the crowning race of human-kind."

It was but after the usual order of our discordant life,--where Purgatory lies so nigh to Paradise,--that she should thence be summoned to pass a Sunday with the prisoners at Sing-Sing. This was the period when, in fulfilment of the sagacious and humane counsels of Judge Edmonds, a system of kind discipline, combined with education, was in practice at that penitentiary, and when the female department was under the matronly charge of Mrs. E.W. Farnum, aided by Mrs. Johnson, Miss Bruce, and other ladies, who all united sisterly sympathy with energetic firmness. Margaret thus describes her impressions:--

'We arrived on Saturday evening, in such resplendent
moonlight, that we might have mistaken the prison for a
palace, had we not known but too well what those massive walls
contained.

'Sunday morning we attended service in the chapel of the male
convicts. They listened with earnest attention, and many were
moved to tears. I never felt such sympathy with an audience
as when, at the words "Men and brethren," that sea of faces,
marked with the scars of every ill, were upturned, and the
shell of brutality burst apart at the touch of love. I
knew that at least heavenly truth would not be kept out by
self-complacence and dependence on good appearances.

'After twelve at noon, all are confined in their cells, that
the keepers may have rest from their weekly fatigue. But I was
allowed to have some of the women out to talk with, and the
interview was very pleasant. They showed the natural aptitude
of the sex for refinement. These women were among the
so-called worst, and all from the lowest haunts of vice. Yet
nothing could have been more decorous than their conduct,
while it was also frank; and they showed a sensibility
and sense of propriety, which would not have disgraced any
society. All passed, indeed, much as in one of my Boston
classes. I told them I was writing about Woman; and, as my
path had been a favored one, I wanted to gain information from
those who had been tempted and afflicted. They seemed to
reply in the same spirit in which I asked. Several, however,
expressed a wish to see me alone, as they could then say
_all_, which they could not bear to before one another. I
shall go there again, and take time for this. It is very
gratifying to see the influence these few months of gentle and
intelligent treatment have had upon these women; indeed, it is
wonderful.'

So much were her sympathies awakened by this visit, that she rejoiced in the opportunity, soon after offered, of passing Christmas with these outcasts, and gladly consented to address the women in their chapel. "There was," says one present, "a most touching tenderness, blended with dignity, in her air and tone, as, seated in the desk, she looked round upon her fallen sisters, and begun: 'To me the pleasant office has been given, of 'wishing you a happy Christmas.' A simultaneous movement of obeisance rippled over the audience, with a murmured 'Thank you;' and a smile was spread upon those sad countenances, like sunrise sparkling on a pool." A few words from this discourse,--which was extemporaneous, but of which she afterward made an imperfect record,--will show the temper in which she spoke:--

'I have passed other Christmas days happily, but never felt
as now, how fitting it is that this festival should come among
the snows and chills of winter; for, to many of you, I
trust, it is the birth-day of a higher life, when the sun of
good-will is beginning to return, and the evergreen of hope
gives promise of the eternal year. * * *

'Some months ago, we were told of the riot, the license, and
defying spirit which made this place so wretched, and the
conduct of some now here was such that the world said:--"Women
once lost are far worse than abandoned men, and cannot be
restored." But, no! It is not so! I know my sex better. It is
because women have so much feeling, and such a rooted respect
for purity, that they seem so shameless and insolent, when
they feel that they have erred and that others think ill of
them. They know that even the worst of men would like to see
women pure as angels, and when they meet man's look of scorn,
the desperate passion that rises is a perverted pride, which
might have been their guardian angel. Might have been! Rather
let me say, which may be; for the great improvement so rapidly
wrought here gives us all warm hopes. * * *

'Be not in haste to leave these walls. Yesterday, one of you,
who was praised, replied, that "if she did well she hoped that
efforts would be made to have her pardoned." I can feel the
monotony and dreariness of your confinement, but I entreat
you to believe that for many of you it would be the greatest
misfortune to be taken from here too soon. You know, better
than I can, the temptations that await you in the world; and
you must now perceive how dark is the gulf of sin and sorrow,
towards which they would hurry you. Here, you have friends
indeed; friends to your better selves; able and ready to
help you. Born of unfortunate marriages, inheriting dangerous
inclinations, neglected in childhood, with bad habits and bad
associates, as certainly must be the case with some of you,
how terrible will be the struggle when you leave this shelter!
O, be sure that you are fitted to triumph over evil, before
you again expose yourselves to it! And, instead of wasting
your time and strength in vain wishes, use this opportunity to
prepare yourselves for a better course of life, when you are
set free. * * *

'When I was here before, I was grieved by hearing several of
you say, "I will tell you what you wish to know, if I can be
alone with you; but not before the other prisoners; for, if
they know my past faults, they will taunt me with them." O,
never do that! To taunt the fallen is the part of a fiend. And
you! you were meant by Heaven to become angels of sympathy and
love. It says in the Scripture: "Their angels do always behold
in heaven the face of my Father." So was it with you in your
childhood; so is it now. Your angels stand forever there to
intercede for you; and to you they call to be gentle and good.
Nothing can so grieve and discourage those heavenly friends as
when you mock the suffering. It was one of the highest praises
of Jesus, "The bruised reed he will not break." Remember that,
and never insult, where you cannot aid, a companion. * * *

'Let me warn you earnestly against acting insincerely, and
appearing to wish to do right for the sake of approbation
I know you must prize the good opinion of your friendly
protectors; but do not buy it at the cost of truth. Try to be,
not to seem. Only so far as you earnestly wish to do right for
the sake of right, can you gain a principle that will sustain
you hereafter; and that is what we wish, not fair appearances
now. A career can never be happy that begins with falsehood.
Be inwardly, outwardly true; then you will never be weakened
or hardened by the consciousness of playing a part; and if,
hereafter, the unfeeling or thoughtless give you pain, or
take the dreadful risk of pushing back a soul emerging
from darkness, you will feel the strong support of a good
conscience. * * *

'And never be discouraged; never despond; never say, "It is
too late." Fear not, even if you relapse again and again. Many
of you have much to contend with. Some may be so faulty, by
temperament or habit, that they can never on this earth lead a
wholly fair and harmonious life, however much they strive.
Yet do what you can. If in one act,--for one day,--you can do
right, let that live like a point of light in your memory; for
if you have done well once you can again. If you fall, do
not lie grovelling; but rise upon your feet once more, and
struggle bravely on. And if aroused conscience makes you
suffer keenly, have patience to bear it. God will not let you
suffer more than you need to fit you for his grace. At the
very moment of your utmost pain, persist to seek his aid, and
it will be given abundantly. Cultivate this spirit of prayer.
I do not mean agitation and excitement, but a deep desire for
truth, purity, and goodness, and you will daily learn how near
He is to every one of 'us.''

These fragments, from a hasty report transcribed when the impressions of the hour had grown faint, give but a shadow of the broad good sense, hearty fellow-feeling, and pathetic hopefulness, which made so effective her truly womanly appeal.

This intercourse with the most unfortunate of her sex, and a desire to learn more of the causes of their degradation, and of the means of restoring them, led Margaret, immediately on reaching New York, to visit the various benevolent institutions, and especially the prisons on Blackwell's Island. And it was while walking among the beds of the lazar-house,--mis-called "hospital,"--which then, to the disgrace of the city, was the cess-pool of its social filth, that an incident occurred, as touching as it was surprising to herself. A woman was pointed out who bore a very bad character, as hardened, sulky, and impenetrable. She was in bad health and rapidly failing. Margaret requested to be left alone with her; and to her question, 'Are you 'willing to die?' the woman answered, "Yes;" adding, with her usual bitterness, "not on religious grounds, though." 'That is well,--to understand yourself,' was Margaret's rejoinder. She then began to talk with her about her health, and her few comforts, until the conversation deepened in interest. At length, as Margaret rose to go, she said: 'Is there not anything I can do 'for you?' The woman replied: "I should be glad if you will pray with me."

The condition of these wretched beings was brought the more home to her heart, as the buildings were directly in sight from Mr. Greeley's house, at Turtle Bay, where Margaret, on her arrival, went to reside. 'Seven hundred females,' she writes,

'are now confined in the Penitentiary opposite this point.
We can pass over in a boat in a few minutes. I mean to visit,
talk, and read with them. I have always felt great interest in
those women who are trampled in the mud to gratify the brute
appetites of men, and wished that I might be brought naturally
into contact with them. Now I am.'

THE TRIBUNE AND HORACE GREELEY.

It was early in December of 1844 that Margaret took up her abode with Mr. and Mrs. Greeley, in a spacious old wooden mansion, somewhat ruinous, but delightfully situated on the East River, which she thus describes:--

'This place is, to me, entirely charming; it is so completely
in the country, and all around is so bold and free. It is two
miles or more from the thickly settled parts of New York, but
omnibuses and cars give me constant access to the city, and,
while I can readily see what and whom I will, I can command
time and retirement. Stopping on the Haarlem road, you enter
a lane nearly a quarter of a mile long, and going by a small
brook and pond that locks in the place, and ascending a
slightly rising ground, get sight of the house, which,
old-fashioned and of mellow tint, fronts on a flower-garden
filled with shrubs, large vines, and trim box borders. On
both sides of the house are beautiful trees, standing fair,
full-grown, and clear. Passing through a wide hall, you come
out upon a piazza, stretching the whole length of the house,
where one can walk in all weathers; and thence by a step or
two, on a lawn, with picturesque masses of rocks, shrubs
and trees, overlooking the East River. Gravel paths lead, by
several turns, down the steep bank to the water's edge, where
round the rocky point a small bay curves, in which boats are
lying. And, owing to the currents, and the set of the tide,
the sails glide sidelong, seeming to greet the house as
they sweep by. The beauty here, seen by moonlight, is truly
transporting. I enjoy it greatly, and the _genius loci_
receives me as to a home.'

Here Margaret remained for a year and more, writing regularly for the Tribune. And how high an estimate this prolonged and near acquaintance led her to form for its Editor, will appear from a few passages in her letters:--

'Mr. Greeley is a man of genuine excellence, honorable,
benevolent, and of an uncorrupted disposition. He is
sagacious, and, in his way, of even great abilities. In modes
of life and manner he is a man of the people, and of the
American people.' And again:--Mr. Greeley is in many ways
very interesting for me to know. He teaches me things, which
my own influence on those, who have hitherto approached me,
has prevented me from learning. In our business and friendly
relations, we are on terms of solid good-will and mutual
respect. With the exception of my own mother, I think him the
most disinterestedly generous person I have ever known.'

And later she writes:--

'You have heard that the Tribune Office was burned to the
ground. For a day I thought it must make a difference, but it
has served only to increase my admiration for Mr. Greeley's
smiling courage. He has really a strong character.'

On the other side, Mr. Greeley thus records his recollections of his friend:--

"My first acquaintance with Margaret Fuller was made through
the pages of 'The Dial.' The lofty range and rare ability
of that work, and its un-American richness of culture and
ripeness of thought, naturally filled the 'fit audience,
though few,' with a high estimate of those who were known
as its conductors and principal writers. Yet I do not now
remember that any article, which strongly impressed me, was
recognized as from the pen of its female editor, prior to the
appearance of 'The Great Lawsuit,' afterwards matured into the
volume more distinctively, yet not quite accurately, entitled
'Woman in the Nineteenth Century.' I think this can hardly
have failed to make a deep impression on the mind of every
thoughtful reader, as the production of an original, vigorous,
and earnest mind. 'Summer on the Lakes,' which appeared some
time after that essay, though before its expansion into
a book, struck me as less ambitious in its aim, but more
graceful and delicate in its execution; and as one of the
clearest and most graphic delineations, ever given, of the
Great Lakes, of the Prairies, and of the receding
barbarism, and the rapidly advancing, but rude, repulsive
semi-civilization, which were contending with most unequal
forces for the possession of those rich lands. I still
consider 'Summer on the Lakes' unequalled, especially in its
pictures of the Prairies and of the sunnier aspects of Pioneer
life.

"Yet, it was the suggestion of Mrs. Greeley,--who had spent
some weeks of successive seasons in or near Boston, and who
had there made the personal acquaintance of Miss Fuller, and
formed a very high estimate and warm attachment for her,--that
induced me, in the autumn of 1844, to offer her terms, which
were accepted, for her assistance in the literary department
of the Tribune. A home in my family was included in the
stipulation. I was myself barely acquainted with her, when she
thus came to reside with us, and I did not fully appreciate
her nobler qualities for some months afterward. Though we
were members of the same household, we scarcely met save at
breakfast; and my time and thoughts were absorbed in duties
and cares, which left me little leisure or inclination for the
amenities of social intercourse. Fortune seemed to delight
in placing us two in relations of friendly antagonism,--or
rather, to develop all possible contrasts in our ideas and
social habits. She was naturally inclined to luxury and a good
appearance before the world. My pride, if I had any, delighted
in bare walls and rugged fare. She was addicted to strong tea
and coffee, both which I rejected and contemned, even in the
most homoeopathic dilutions: while, my general health being
sound, and hers sadly impaired, I could not fail to find in
her dietetic habits the causes of her almost habitual illness;
and once, while we were still barely acquainted, when she
came to the breakfast-table with a very severe headache, I was
tempted to attribute it to her strong potations of the Chinese
leaf the night before. She told me quite frankly that she
'declined being lectured on the food or beverage she saw fit
to take;' which was but reasonable in one who had arrived
at her maturity of intellect and fixedness of habits. So
the subject was thenceforth tacitly avoided between us; but,
though words were suppressed, looks and involuntary gestures
could not so well be; and an utter divergency of views on this
and kindred themes created a perceptible distance between us.

"Her earlier contributions to the Tribune were not her best,
and I did not at first prize her aid so highly as I afterwards
learned to do. She wrote always freshly, vigorously, but not
always clearly; for her full and intimate acquaintance with
continental literature, especially German, seemed to have
marred her felicity and readiness of expression in her mother
tongue. While I never met another woman who conversed more
freely or lucidly, the attempt to commit her thoughts to paper
seemed to induce a singular embarrassment and hesitation. She
could write only when in the vein; and this needed often to be
waited for through several days, while the occasion sometimes
required an immediate utterance. The new book must be reviewed
before other journals had thoroughly dissected and discussed
it, else the ablest critique would command no general
attention, and perhaps be, by the greater number, unread. That
the writer should wait the flow of inspiration, or at least
the recurrence of elasticity of spirits and relative health of
body, will not seem unreasonable to the general reader; but
to the inveterate hack-horse of the daily press, accustomed to
write at any time, on any subject, and with a rapidity
limited only by the physical ability to form the requisite
pen-strokes, the notion of waiting for a brighter day, or a
happier frame of mind, appears fantastic and absurd. He would
as soon think of waiting for a change in the moon. Hence,
while I realized that her contributions evinced rare
intellectual wealth and force, I did not value them as I
should have done had they been written more fluently and
promptly. They often seemed to make their appearance 'a day
after the fair.'

"One other point of tacit antagonism between us may as well be
noted. Margaret was always a most earnest, devoted champion
of the Emancipation of Women, from their past and present
condition of inferiority, to an independence on Men. She
demanded for them the fullest recognition of Social and
Political Equality with the rougher sex; the freest access to
all stations, professions, employments, which are open to any.
To this demand I heartily acceded. It seemed to me, however,
that her clear perceptions of abstract right were often
overborne, in practice, by the influence of education and
habit; that while she demanded absolute equality for Woman,
she exacted a deference and courtesy from men to women, _as_
women, which was entirely inconsistent with that requirement.
In my view, the equalizing theory can be enforced only by
ignoring the habitual discrimination of men and women, as
forming separate _classes_, and regarding all alike as simply
_persons_,--as human beings. So long as a lady shall deem
herself in need of some gentleman's arm to conduct her
properly out of a dining or ball-room,--so long as she shall
consider it dangerous or unbecoming to walk half a mile alone
by night,--I cannot see how the 'Woman's Rights' theory
is ever to be anything more than a logically defensible
abstraction. In this view Margaret did not at all concur,
and the diversity was the incitement to much perfectly
good-natured, but nevertheless sharpish sparring between us.
Whenever she said or did anything implying the usual demand
of Woman on the courtesy and protection of Manhood, I was apt,
before complying, to look her in the face and exclaim with
marked emphasis,--quoting from her 'Woman in the Nineteenth
Century,'--'LET THEM BE SEA-CAPTAINS IF THEY WILL!' Of course,
this was given and received as raillery, but it did not tend
to ripen our intimacy or quicken my esteem into admiration.
Though no unkind word ever passed between us, nor any approach
to one, yet we two dwelt for months under the same roof, as
scarcely more than acquaintances, meeting once a day at a
common board, and having certain business relations with
each other. Personally, I regarded her rather as my wife's
cherished friend than as my own, possessing many lofty
qualities and some prominent weaknesses, and a good deal
spoiled by the unmeasured flattery of her little circle of
inordinate admirers. For myself, burning no incense on any
human shrine, I half-consciously resolved to 'keep my eye beam
clear,' and escape the fascination which she seemed to exert
over the eminent and cultivated persons, mainly women, who
came to our out-of-the-way dwelling to visit her, and who
seemed generally to regard her with a strangely Oriental
adoration.

"But as time wore on, and I became inevitably better and
better acquainted with her, I found myself drawn, almost
irresistibly, into the general current. I found that her
faults and weaknesses were all superficial and obvious to the
most casual, if undazzled, observer. They rather dwindled than
expanded upon a fuller knowledge; or rather, took on new and
brighter aspects in the light of her radiant and lofty soul. I
learned to know her as a most fearless and unselfish champion
of Truth and Human Good at all hazards, ready to be their
standard-bearer through danger and obloquy, and, if need be,
their martyr. I think few have more keenly appreciated
the material goods of life,--Rank, Riches, Power, Luxury,
Enjoyment; but I know none who would have more cheerfully
surrendered them all, if the well-being of our Race could
thereby have been promoted. I have never met another in whom
the inspiring hope of Immortality was so strengthened into
profoundest conviction. She did not _believe_ in our future
and unending existence,--she _knew_ it, and lived ever in the
broad glare of its morning twilight. With a limited income
and liberal wants, she was yet generous beyond the bounds of
reason. Had the gold of California been all her own, she would
have disbursed nine tenths of it in eager and well-directed
efforts to stay, or at least diminish, the flood of human
misery. And it is but fair to state, that the liberality she
evinced was fully paralleled by the liberality she experienced
at the hands of others. Had she needed thousands, and made
her wants known, she had friends who would have cheerfully
supplied her. I think few persons, in their pecuniary
dealings, have experienced and evinced more of the better
qualities of human nature than Margaret Fuller. She seemed to
inspire those who approached her with that generosity which
was a part of her nature.

"Of her writings I do not purpose to speak critically. I think
most of her contributions to the Tribune, while she remained
with us, were characterized by a directness, terseness,
and practicality, which are wanting in some of her earlier
productions. Good judges have confirmed my own opinion, that,
while her essays in the Dial are more elaborate and ambitious,
her reviews in the Tribune are far better adapted to win the
favor and sway the judgment of the great majority of readers.
But, one characteristic of her writings I feel bound to
commend,--their absolute truthfulness. She never asked how
this would sound, nor whether that would do, nor what would be
the effect of saying anything; but simply, 'Is it the truth?
Is it such as the public should know?' And if her judgment
answered, 'Yes,' she uttered it; no matter what turmoil it
might excite, nor what odium it might draw down on her
own head. Perfect conscientiousness was an unfailing
characteristic of her literary efforts. Even the severest
of her critiques,--that on Longfellow's Poems,--for which
an impulse in personal pique has been alleged, I happen with
certainty to know had no such origin. When I first handed her
the book to review, she excused herself, assigning the wide
divergence of her views of Poetry from those of the author and
his school, as her reason. She thus induced me to attempt the
task of reviewing it myself. But day after day sped by, and
I could find no hour that was not absolutely required for
the performance of some duty that _would not_ be put off, nor
turned over to another. At length I carried the book back to
her in utter despair of ever finding an hour in which even to
look through it; and, at my renewed and earnest request, she
reluctantly undertook its discussion. The statement of these
facts is but an act of justice to her memory.

"Profoundly religious,--though her creed was, at once, very
broad and very short, with a genuine love for inferiors in
social position, whom she was habitually studying, by her
counsel and teachings, to elevate and improve,--she won
the confidence and affection of those who attracted her, by
unbounded sympathy and trust. She probably knew the cherished
secrets of more hearts than any one else, because she freely
imparted her own. With a full share both of intellectual and
of family pride, she preëminently recognized and responded to
the essential brotherhood of all human kind, and needed but to
know that a fellow-being required her counsel or assistance,
to render her, riot merely willing, but eager to impart it.
Loving ease, luxury, and the world's good opinion, she stood
ready to renounce them all, at the call of pity or of duty.
I think no one, not radically averse to the whole system of
domestic servitude, would have treated servants, of whatever
class, with such uniform and thoughtful consideration,--a
regard which wholly merged their factitious condition in their
antecedent and permanent humanity. I think few servants ever
lived weeks with her, who were not dignified and lastingly
benefited by her influence and her counsels. They might be
at first repelled, by what seemed her too stately manner and
exacting disposition, but they soon learned to esteem and love
her.