"Cui potest vita esse vitalis, (ut ait Ennius,) quæ non in
amici mutatâ benevolentiâ requiescat?"--CICERO.
* * * * *
It was while living at Cambridge that Margaret commenced several of
those friendships which lasted through her life, and which were the
channels for so large a part of her spiritual activity. In giving some
account of her in these relations, there is only the alternative of a
prudent reserve which omits whatever is liable to be misunderstood, or
a frank utterance which confides in the good sense and right feeling
of the reader. By the last course, we run the risk of allowing our
friend to be misunderstood; but by the first we make it certain that
the most important part of her character shall not be understood at
all. I have, therefore, thought it best to follow, as far as I can,
her own ideas on this subject, which I find in two of her letters to
myself. The first is dated, Groton, Jan. 8th, 1839. I was at that time
editing a theological and literary magazine, in the West, and this
letter was occasioned by my asking her to allow me to publish therein
certain poems, and articles of hers, which she had given me to read.
'And I wish now, as far as I can, to give my reasons for what
you consider absurd squeamishness in me. You may not acquiesce
in my view, but I think you will respect it _as_ mine and be
willing to act upon it so far as I am concerned.
'Genius seems to me excusable in taking the public for a
confidant. Genius is universal, and can appeal to the common
heart of man. But even here I would not have it too direct.
I prefer to see the thought or feeling made universal. How
different the confidence of Goethe, for instance, from that of
Byron!
'But for us lesser people, who write verses merely as vents
for the overflowings of a personal experience, which in every
life of any value craves occasionally the accompaniment of the
lyre, it seems to me that all the value of this utterance is
destroyed by a hasty or indiscriminate publicity. The moment
I lay open my heart, and tell the fresh feeling to any one who
chooses to hear, I feel profaned.
'When it has passed into experience, when the flower has gone
to seed, I don't care who knows it, or whither they wander. I
am no longer it,--I stand on it. I do not know whether this
is peculiar to me, or not, but I am sure the moment I cease
to have any reserve or delicacy about a feeling, it is on the
wane.
'About putting beautiful verses in your Magazine, I have no
feeling except what I should have about furnishing a room. I
should not put a dressing-case into a parlor, or a book-case
into a dressing-room, because, however good things in
their place, they were not in place there. And this, not in
consideration of the public, but of my own sense of fitness
and harmony.'
The next extract is from a letter written to me in 1842, after a
journey which we had taken to the White Mountains, in the company of
my sister, and Mr. and Mrs. Farrar. During this journey Margaret had
conversed with me concerning some passages of her private history and
experience, and in this letter she asks me to be prudent in speaking
of it, giving her reasons as follows:--
'_Cambridge, July 31, 1842._--... I said I was happy in having
no secret. It is my nature, and has been the tendency of my
life, to wish that all my thoughts and deeds might lie, as
the "open secrets" of Nature, free to all who are able to
understand them. I have no reserves, except intellectual
reserves; for to speak of things to those who cannot receive
them is stupidity, rather than frankness. But in this case,
I alone am not concerned. Therefore, dear James, give heed
to the subject. You have received a key to what was before
unknown of your friend; you have made use of it, now let it
be buried with the past, over whose passages profound and
sad, yet touched with heaven-born beauty, "let silence stand
sentinel."'
I shall endeavor to keep true to the spirit of these sentences in
speaking of Margaret's friendships. Yet not to speak of them in
her biography would be omitting the most striking feature of her
character. It would be worse than the play of Hamlet with Hamlet
omitted. Henry the Fourth without Sully, Gustavus Adolphus without
Oxenstiern, Napoleon without his marshals, Socrates without his
scholars, would be more complete than Margaret without her friends.
So that, in touching on these private relations, we must be
everywhere "bold," yet not "too bold." The extracts will be taken
indiscriminately from letters written to many friends.
The insight which Margaret displayed in finding her friends, the
magnetism by which she drew them toward herself, the catholic range
of her intimacies, the influence which she exercised to develop the
latent germ of every character, the constancy with which she clung
to each when she had once given and received confidence, the delicate
justice which kept every intimacy separate, and the process of
transfiguration which took place when she met any one on this mountain
of Friendship, giving a dazzling lustre to the details of common
life,--all these should be at least touched upon and illustrated, to
give any adequate view of her in these relations.
Such a prejudice against her had been created by her faults of manner,
that the persons she might most wish to know often retired from her
and avoided her. But she was "sagacious of her quarry," and never
suffered herself to be repelled by this. She saw when any one
belonged to her, and never rested till she came into possession of her
property. I recollect a lady who thus fled from her for several years,
yet, at last, became most nearly attached to her. This "wise sweet"
friend, as Margaret characterized her in two words, a flower hidden
in the solitude of deep woods, Margaret saw and appreciated from the
first.
See how, in the following passage, she describes to one of her friends
her perception of character, and her power of attracting it, when only
fifteen years old.
'_Jamaica Plains, July, 1840_.--Do you remember my telling
you, at Cohasset, of a Mr. ---- staying with us, when I was
fifteen, and all that passed? Well, I have not seen him since,
till, yesterday, he came here. I was pleased to find, that,
even at so early an age, I did not overrate those I valued.
He was the same as in memory; the powerful eye dignifying an
otherwise ugly face; the calm wisdom, and refined observation,
the imposing _manière d'être_, which anywhere would give him
an influence among men, without his taking any trouble, or
making any sacrifice, and the great waves of feeling that
seemed to rise as an attractive influence, and overspread his
being. He said, nothing since his childhood had been so marked
as his visit to our house; that it had dwelt in his thoughts
unchanged amid all changes. I could have wished he had never
returned to change the picture. He looked at me continually,
and said, again and again, he should have known me anywhere;
but O how changed I must be since that epoch of pride and
fulness! He had with him his son, a wild boy of five years
old, all brilliant with health and energy, and with the same
powerful eye. He said,--You know I am not one to confound
acuteness and rapidity of intellect with real genius; but he
is for those an extraordinary child. He would astonish you,
but I look deep enough into the prodigy to see the work of an
extremely nervous temperament, and I shall make him as dull
as I can. "_Margaret_," (pronouncing the name in the same
deliberate searching way he used to do,) "I love him so well,
I will try to teach him moderation. If I can help it, he shall
not feed on bitter ashes, nor try these paths of avarice and
ambition." It made me feel very strangely to hear him talk so
to my old self. What a gulf between! There is scarce a fibre
left of the haughty, passionate, ambitious child he remembered
and loved. I felt affection for him still; for his character
was formed then, and had not altered, except by ripening and
expanding! But thus, in other worlds, we shall remember our
present selves.'
Margaret's constancy to any genuine relation, once established, was
surprising. If her friends' _aim_ changed, so as to take them out of
her sphere, she was saddened by it, and did not let them go without a
struggle. But wherever they continued "true to the original standard,"
(as she loved to phrase it) her affectionate interest would follow
them unimpaired through all the changes of life. The principle of this
constancy she thus expresses in a letter to one of her brothers:--
'Great and even _fatal_ errors (so far as this life is
concerned) could not destroy my friendship for one in whom I
am sure of the kernel of nobleness.'
She never formed a friendship until she had seen and known this germ
of good; and afterwards judged conduct by this. To this germ of good,
to this highest law of each individual, she held them true. But never
did she act like those who so often judge of their friend from some
report of his conduct, as if they had never known him, and allow
the inference from a single act to alter the opinion formed by an
induction from years of intercourse. From all such weakness Margaret
stood wholly free.
I have referred to the wide range of Margaret's friendships. Even at
this period this variety was very apparent. She was the centre of
a group very different from each other, and whose only affinity
consisted in their all being polarized by the strong attraction of her
mind,--all drawn toward herself. Some of her friends were young, gay
and beautiful; some old, sick or studious. Some were children of the
world, others pale scholars. Some were witty, others slightly dull.
But all, in order to be Margaret's friends, must be capable of seeking
something,--capable of some aspiration for the better. And how did she
glorify life to all! all that was tame and common vanishing away in
the picturesque light thrown over the most familiar things by her
rapid fancy, her brilliant wit, her sharp insight, her creative
imagination, by the inexhaustible resources of her knowledge, and the
copious rhetoric which found words and images always apt and always
ready. Even then she displayed almost the same marvellous gift of
conversation which afterwards dazzled all who knew her,--with more
perhaps of freedom, since she floated on the flood of our warm
sympathies. Those who know Margaret only by her published writings
know her least; her notes and letters contain more of her mind; but it
was only in conversation that she was perfectly free and at home.
Margaret's constancy in friendship caused her to demand it in others,
and thus she was sometimes exacting. But the pure Truth of her
character caused her to express all such feelings with that freedom
and simplicity that they became only as slight clouds on a serene sky,
giving it a tenderer beauty, and casting picturesque shades over the
landscape below. From her letters to different friends I select a few
examples of these feelings.
'The world turns round and round, and you too must needs be
negligent and capricious. You have not answered my note; you
have not given me what I asked. You do not come here. Do not
you act so,--it is the drop too much. The world seems not only
turning but tottering, when my kind friend plays such a part.'
* * * * *
'You need not have delayed your answer so long; why not at
once answer the question I asked? Faith is not natural to
me; for the love I feel to others is not in the idleness of
poverty, nor can I persist in believing the best; merely to
save myself pain, or keep a leaning place for the weary
heart. But I should believe you, because I have seen that your
feelings are strong and constant; they have never disappointed
me, when closely scanned.'
* * * * *
'_July 6, 1832._--I believe I behaved very badly the other
evening. I did not think so yesterday. I had been too
surprised and vexed to recover very easily, but to-day my
sophistries have all taken wing, and I feel that nothing
good could have made me act with such childish petulance and
bluntness towards one who spoke from friendly emotions. Be
at peace; I will astonish you by my repose, mildness, and
self-possession. No, that is silly; but I believe it cannot
be right to be on such terms with any one, that, on the least
vexation, I indulge my feelings at his or her expense. We will
talk less, but we shall be very good friends still, I hope.
Shall not we?'
In the last extract, we have an example of that genuine humility,
which, being a love of truth, underlaid her whole character,
notwithstanding its seeming pride. She could not have been great as
she was, without it.[A]
'_December 19th, 1829._--I shall always be glad to have you
come to me when saddened. The melancholic does not misbecome
you. The lights of your character are _wintry_. They are
generally inspiriting, life-giving, but, if perpetual, would
glare too much on the tired sense; one likes sometimes a
cloudy day, with its damp and warmer breath,--its gentle,
down-looking shades. Sadness in some is intolerably ungraceful
and oppressive; it affects one like a cold rainy day in
June or September, when all pleasure departs with the sun;
everything seems out of place and irrelative to the time; the
clouds are fog, the atmosphere leaden,--but 'tis not so with
you.'
Of her own truthfulness to her friends, which led her frankly to speak
to them of their faults or dangers, her correspondence gives constant
examples.
The first is from a letter of later date than properly belongs to this
chapter, but is so wholly in her spirit of candor that I insert it
here. It is from a letter written in 1843.
'I have been happy in the sight of your pure design, of the
sweetness and serenity of your mind. In the inner sanctuary we
met. But I shall say a few blunt words, such as were frequent
in the days of intimacy, and, if they are needless, you
will let them fall to the ground. Youth is past, with its
passionate joys and griefs, its restlessness, its vague
desires. You have chosen your path, you have rounded out your
lot, your duties are before you. _Now_ beware the mediocrity
that threatens middle age, its limitation of thought and
interest, its dulness of fancy, its too external life, and
mental thinness. Remember the limitations that threaten
every professional man, only to be guarded against by great
earnestness and watchfulness. So take care of yourself, and
let not the intellect more than the spirit be quenched.
* * * * *
'It is such a relief to me to be able to speak to you upon a
subject which I thought would never lie open between us. Now
there will be no place which does not lie open to the light. I
can always say what I feel. And the way in which you took it,
so like yourself, so manly and noble, gives me the assurance
that I shall have the happiness of seeing in you that
symmetry, that conformity in the details of life with the
highest aims, of which I have sometimes despaired. How much
higher, dear friend, is "the mind, the music breathing from
the" _life_, than anything we can say! Character is higher
than intellect; this I have long felt to be true; may we both
live as if we knew it.
* * 'I hope and believe we may be yet very much to each other.
Imperfect as I am, I feel myself not unworthy to be a true
friend. Neither of us is unworthy. In few natures does such
love for the good and beautiful survive the ruin of all
youthful hopes, the wreck of all illusions.'
* * * * *
'I supposed our intimacy would terminate when I left
Cambridge. Its continuing to subsist is a matter of surprise
to me. And I expected, ere this, you would have found some
Hersilia, or such-like, to console you for losing your
Natalia. See, my friend, I am three and twenty. I believe
in love and friendship, but I cannot but notice that
circumstances have appalling power, and that those links which
are not riveted by situation, by _interest_, (I mean, not mere
worldly interest, but the instinct of self-preservation,)
may be lightly broken by a chance touch. I speak not in
misanthropy, I believe
"Die Zeit ist schlecht, doch giebts noch grosse Herzen."
'Surely I maybe pardoned for aiming at the same results with
the chivalrous "gift of the Gods." I cannot endure to be one
of those shallow beings who can never get beyond the primer of
experience,--who are ever saying,--
"Ich habe geglaubt, _nun glaube ich erst recht_,
Und geht es auch wunderlich, geht es auch schlecht,
Ich bleibe in glaubigen Orden."
Yet, when you write, write freely, and if I don't like what
you say, let me say so. I have ever been frank, as if I
expected to be intimate with you good three-score years and
ten. I am sure we shall always esteem each other. I have that
much faith.'
* * * * *
'_Jan_. 1832.--All that relates to--must be interesting to
me, though I never voluntarily think of him now. The apparent
caprice of his conduct has shaken my faith, but not destroyed
my hope. That hope, if I, who have so mistaken others, may
dare to think I know myself, was never selfish. It is painful
to lose a friend whose knowledge and converse mingled so
intimately with the growth of my mind,--an early friend to
whom I was all truth and frankness, seeking nothing but equal
truth and frankness in return. But this evil may be borne; the
hard, the lasting evil was to learn to distrust my own heart,
and lose all faith in my power of knowing others. In this
letter I see again that peculiar pride, that contempt of the
forms and shows of goodness, that fixed resolve to be anything
but "like unto the Pharisees," which were to my eye such happy
omens. Yet how strangely distorted are all his views! The
daily influence of his intercourse with me was like the breath
he drew; it has become a part of him. Can he escape from
himself? Would he be unlike all other mortals? His feelings
are as false as those of Alcibiades. He influenced me, and
helped form me to what I am. Others shall succeed him. Shall
I be ashamed to owe anything to friendship? But why do I
talk?--a child might confute him by defining the term _human
being_. He will gradually work his way into light; if too late
for our friendship, not, I trust, too late for his own peace
and honorable well-being. I never insisted on being the
instrument of good to him. I practised no little arts, no!
not to effect the good of the friend I loved. I have prayed to
Heaven, (surely we are sincere when doing that,) to guide him
in the best path for him, however far from me that path might
lead. The lesson I have learned may make me a more useful
friend, a more efficient aid to others than I could be to him;
yet I hope I shall not be denied the consolation of knowing
surely, one day, that all which appeared evil in the companion
of happy years was but error.'
* * * * *
'I think, since you have seen so much of my character, that
you must be sensible that any reserves with those whom I call
my friends, do not arise from duplicity, but an instinctive
feeling that I could not be understood. I can truly say that I
wish no one to overrate me; undeserved regard could give me no
pleasure; nor will I consent to practise charlatanism, either
in friendship or anything else.'
* * * * *
'You ought not to think I show a want of generous confidence,
if I sometimes try the ground on which I tread, to see if
perchance it may return the echoes of hollowness.'
* * * * *
'Do not cease to respect me as formerly. It seems to me that I
have reached the "parting of the ways" in my life, and all the
knowledge which I have toiled to gain only serves to show me
the disadvantages of each. None of those who think themselves
my friends can aid me; each, careless, takes the path to which
present convenience impels; and all would smile or stare,
could they know the aching and measureless wishes, the sad
apprehensiveness, which make me pause and strain my almost
hopeless gaze to the distance. What wonder if my present
conduct should be mottled by selfishness and incertitude?
Perhaps you, who _can_ make your views certain, cannot
comprehend me; though you showed me last night a penetration
which did not flow from sympathy. But this I may say--though
the glad light of hope and ambitious confidence, which has
vitalized my mind, should be extinguished forever, I will not
in life act a mean, ungenerous, or useless part. Therefore,
let not a slight thing lessen your respect for me. If you feel
as much pain as I do, when obliged to diminish my respect for
any person, you will be glad of this assurance. I hope you
will not think this note in the style of a French novel.'
[Footnote A: According to Dryden's beautiful statement--
'For as high turrets, in their airy sweep
Require foundations, in proportion deep
And lofty cedars as far upward shoot
As to the nether heavens they drive the root;
So low did her secure foundation lie,
She was not humble, but humility.']