* * * * *
I would say something of Margaret's inward condition, of her aims and
views in life, while in Cambridge, before closing this chapter of
her story. Her powers, whether of mind, heart, or will, have been
sufficiently indicated in what has preceded. In the sketch of her
friendships and of her studies, we have seen the affluence of her
intellect, and the deep tenderness of her woman's nature. We have seen
the energy which she displayed in study and labor.
But to what _aim_ were these powers directed? Had she any clear view
of the demands and opportunities of life, any definite plan, any high,
pure purpose? This is, after all, the test question, which detects the
low-born and low-minded wearer of the robe of gold,--
"Touch them inwardly, they smell of copper."
Margaret's life _had an aim_, and she was, therefore, essentially a
moral person, and not merely an overflowing genius, in whom "impulse
gives birth to impulse, deed to deed." This aim was distinctly
apprehended and steadily pursued by her from first to last. It was a
high, noble one, wholly religious, almost Christian. It gave dignity
to her whole career, and made it heroic.
This aim, from first to last, was SELF-CULTURE. If she ever was
ambitious of knowledge and talent, as a means of excelling others, and
gaining fame, position, admiration,--this vanity had passed before
I knew her, and was replaced by the profound desire for a full
development of her whole nature, by means of a full experience of
life.
In her description of her own youth, she says, 'VERY EARLY I KNEW THAT
THE ONLY OBJECT IN LIFE WAS TO GROW.' This is the passage:--
'I was now in the hands of teachers, who had not, since they
came on the earth, put to themselves one intelligent question
as to their business here. Good dispositions and employment
for the heart gave a tone to all they said, which was
pleasing, and not perverting. They, no doubt, injured those
who accepted the husks they proffered for bread, and believed
that exercise of memory was study, and to know what others
knew, was the object of study. But to me this was all
penetrable. I had known great living minds.--I had seen how
they took their food and did their exercise, and what their
objects were. _Very early I knew that the only object in
life was to grow_. I was often false to this knowledge, in
idolatries of particular objects, or impatient longings for
happiness, but I have never lost sight of it, have always been
controlled by it, and this first gift of thought has never
been superseded by a later love.'
In this she spoke truth. The good and the evil which flow from this
great idea of self-development she fully realized. This aim of life,
originally self-chosen, was made much more clear to her mind by the
study of Goethe, the great master of this school, in whose unequalled
eloquence this doctrine acquires an almost irresistible beauty and
charm.
"Wholly religious, and almost Christian," I said, was this aim. It
was religious, because it recognized something divine, infinite,
imperishable in the human soul,--something divine in outward nature
and providence, by which the soul is led along its appointed way. It
was almost Christian in its superiority to all low, worldly, vulgar
thoughts and cares; in its recognition of a high standard of duty, and
a great destiny for man. In its strength, Margaret was enabled to do
and bear, with patient fortitude, what would have crushed a soul not
thus supported. Yet it is not the highest aim, for in all its forms,
whether as personal improvement, the salvation of the soul, or ascetic
religion, it has at its core a profound selfishness. Margaret's soul
was too generous for any low form of selfishness. Too noble to
become an Epicurean, too large-minded to become a modern ascetic, the
defective nature of her rule of life, showed itself in her case,
only in a certain supercilious tone toward "the vulgar herd," in the
absence (at this period) of a tender humanity, and in an idolatrous
hero-worship of genius and power. Afterward, too, she may have
suffered from her desire for a universal human experience, and an
unwillingness to see that we must often be content to enter the
Kingdom, of Heaven halt and maimed,--that a perfect development here
must often be wholly renounced.
But how much better to pursue with devotion, like that of Margaret, an
imperfect aim, than to worship with lip-service, as most persons do,
even though it be in a loftier temple, and before a holier shrine!
With Margaret, the doctrine of self-culture was a devotion to which
she sacrificed all earthly hopes and joys,--everything but manifest
duty. And so her course was "onward, ever onward," like that of
Schiller, to her last hour of life.
Burned in her cheek with ever deepening fire
The spirit's YOUTH, which never passes by;--
The COURAGE which, though worlds in hate conspire,
Conquers, at last, their dull hostility;--
The lofty FAITH, which, ever mounting higher,
Now presses on, now waiteth patiently,--
With which the good tends ever to his goal,
With which day finds, at last, the earnest soul.
But this high idea which governed our friend's life, brought her
into sharp conflicts, which constituted the pathos and tragedy of her
existence,--first with her circumstances, which seemed so inadequate
to the needs of her nature,--afterwards with duties to relatives and
friends,--and, finally, with the law of the Great Spirit, whose will
she found it so hard to acquiesce in.
The circumstances in which Margaret lived appeared to her life a
prison. She had no room for utterance, no sphere adequate; her powers
were unemployed. With what eloquence she described this want of a
field! Often have I listened with wonder and admiration, satisfied
that she exaggerated the evil, and yet unable to combat her rapid
statements. Could she have seen in how few years a way would open
before her, by which she could emerge into an ample field,--how soon
she would find troops of friends, fit society, literary occupation,
and the opportunity of studying the great works of art in their own
home,--she would have been spared many a sharp pang.
Margaret, like every really earnest and deep nature, felt the
necessity of a religious faith as the foundation of character. The
first notice which I find of her views on this point is contained
in the following letter to one of her youthful friends, when only
nineteen:--
* * * * *
'I have hesitated much whether to tell you what you ask about
my religion. You are mistaken! I have not formed an opinion.
I have determined not to form settled opinions at present.
Loving or feeble natures need a positive religion, a visible
refuge, a protection, as much in the passionate season of
youth as in those stages nearer to the grave. But mine is
not such. My pride is superior to any feelings I have yet
experienced: my affection is strong admiration, not the
necessity of giving or receiving assistance or sympathy. When
disappointed, I do not ask or wish consolation,--I wish to
know and feel my pain, to investigate its nature and its
source; I will not have my thoughts diverted, or my feelings
soothed; 'tis therefore that my young life is so singularly
barren of illusions. I know, I feel the time must come when
this proud and impatient heart shall be stilled, and turn from
the ardors of Search and Action, to lean on something above.
But--shall I say it?--the thought of that calmer era is to me
a thought of deepest sadness; so remote from my present being
is that future existence, which still the mind may conceive.
I believe in Eternal Progression. I believe in a God, a
Beauty and Perfection to which I am to strive all my life for
assimilation. From these two articles of belief, I draw the
rules by which I strive to regulate my life. But, though I
reverence all religions as necessary to the happiness of man,
I am yet ignorant of the religion of Revelation. Tangible
promises! well defined hopes! are things of which I do not
_now_ feel the need. At present, my soul is intent on this
life, and I think of religion as its rule; and, in my opinion,
this is the natural and proper course from youth to age. What
I have written is not hastily concocted, it has a meaning. I
have given you, in this little space, the substance of many
thoughts, the clues to many cherished opinions. 'Tis a subject
on which I rarely speak. I never said so much but once before.
I have here given you all I know, or think, on the most
important of subjects--could you but read understandingly!'
* * * * *
I find, in her journals for 1833, the following passages, expressing
the religious purity of her aspirations at that time:--
'Blessed Father, nip every foolish wish in blossom. Lead me
_any way_ to truth and goodness; but if it might be, I would
not pass from idol to idol. Let no mean sculpture deform
a mind disorderly, perhaps ill-furnished, but spacious and
life-warm. Remember thy child, such as thou madest her, and
let her understand her little troubles, when possible, oh,
beautiful Deity!'
* * * * *
'_Sunday morning_.--Mr.--preached on the nature of our duties,
social and personal. The sweet dew of truth penetrated
my heart like balm. He pointed out the various means of
improvement, whereby the humblest of us may be beneficent
at last. How just, how nobly true,--how modestly, yet firmly
uttered,--his opinions of man,--of time,--of God!
'My heart swelled with prayer. I began to feel hope that time
and toil might strengthen me to despise the "vulgar parts
of felicity," and live as becomes an immortal creature. I am
sure, quite sure, that I am getting into the right road. Oh,
lead me, my Father! root out false pride and selfishness from
my heart; inspire me with virtuous energy, and enable me
to improve every talent for the eternal good of myself and
others.'
A friend of Margaret, some years older than herself, gives me the
following narrative:--
"I was," says she, in substance, "suffering keenly from a severe
trial, and had secluded myself from all my friends, when Margaret, a
girl of twenty, forced her way to me. She sat with me, and gave me her
sympathy, and, with most affectionate interest, sought to draw me away
from my gloom. As far as she was able, she gave me comfort. But as my
thoughts were then much led to religious subjects, she sought to learn
my religious experience, and listened to it with great interest. I
told her how I had sat in darkness for two long years, waiting for the
light, and in full faith that it would come; how I had kept my soul
patient and quiet,--had surrendered self-will to God's will,--had
watched and waited till at last His great mercy came in an infinite
peace to my soul. Margaret was never weary of asking me concerning
this state, and said, 'I would gladly give all my talents and
knowledge for such an experience as this.'
"Several years after," continues this friend, "I was travelling with
her, and we sat, one lovely night, looking at the river, as it rolled
beneath the yellow moonlight. We spoke again of God's light in the
soul, and I said--'Margaret! has that light dawned on _your_ soul?'
She answered, 'I think it has. But, oh! it is so glorious that I fear
it will not be permanent, and so precious that I dare not speak of it,
lest it should be gone.'
"That was the whole of our conversation, and I did not speak to her
again concerning it."
* * * * *
Before this time, however, during her residence at Cambridge, she
seemed to reach the period of her existence in which she descended
lowest into the depths of gloom. She felt keenly, at this time, the
want of a home for her heart. Full of a profound tendency toward life,
capable of an ardent love, her affections were thrown back on her
heart, to become stagnant, and for a while to grow bitter there; Then
it was that she felt how empty and worthless were all the attainments
and triumphs of the mere intellect; then it was that "she went about
to cause her heart to despair of all the labor she had taken under the
sun." Had she not emerged from this valley of the shadow of death, and
come on to a higher plane of conviction and hope, her life would have
been a most painful tragedy. But, when we know how she passed on and
up, ever higher and higher, to the mountain-top, leaving one by one
these dark ravines and mist-shrouded valleys, and ascending to where
a perpetual sunshine lay, above the region of clouds, and was able
to overlook with eagle glance the widest panorama,--we can read,
with sympathy indeed, but without pain, the following extracts from a
journal:--
'It was Thanksgiving day, (Nov., 1831,) and I was obliged to
go to church, or exceedingly displease my father. I almost
always suffered much in church from a feeling of disunion with
the hearers and dissent from the preacher; but to-day, more
than ever before, the services jarred upon me from their
grateful and joyful tone. I was wearied out with mental
conflicts, and in a mood of most childish, child-like
sadness. I felt within myself great power, and generosity,
and tenderness; but it seemed to me as if they were all
unrecognized, and as if it was impossible that they should
be used in life. I was only one-and-twenty; the past was
worthless, the future hopeless; yet I could not remember ever
voluntarily to have done a wrong thing, and my aspiration
seemed very high. I looked round the church, and envied all
the little children; for I supposed they had parents who
protected them, so that they could never know this strange
anguish, this dread uncertainty. I knew not, then, that none
could have any father but God. I knew not, that I was not
the only lonely one, that I was not the selected Oedipus, the
special victim of an iron law. I was in haste for all to be
over, that I might get into the free air. * *
'I walked away over the fields as fast as I could walk. This
was my custom at that time, when I could no longer bear the
weight of my feelings, and fix my attention on any pursuit;
for I do believe I never voluntarily gave way to these
thoughts one moment. The force I exerted I think, even now,
greater than I ever knew in any other character. But when I
could bear myself no longer, I walked many hours, till the
anguish was wearied out, and I returned in a state of prayer.
To-day all seemed to have reached its height. It seemed as if
I could never return to a world in which I had no place,--to
the mockery of humanities. I could not act a part, nor seem
to live any longer. It was a sad and sallow day of the late
autumn. Slow processions of sad clouds were passing over a
cold blue sky; the hues of earth were dull, and gray, and
brown, with sickly struggles of late green here and there;
sometimes a moaning gust of wind drove late, reluctant leaves
across the path;--there was no life else. In the sweetness of
my present peace, such days seem to me made to tell man the
worst of his lot; but still that November wind can bring a
chill of memory.
'I paused beside a little stream, which I had envied in the
merry fulness of its spring life. It was shrunken, voiceless,
choked with withered leaves. I marvelled that it did not quite
lose itself in the earth. There was no stay for me, and I went
on and on, till I came to where the trees were thick about
a little pool, dark and silent. I sat down there. I did not
think; all was dark, and cold, and still. Suddenly the sun
shone out with that transparent sweetness, like the last smile
of a dying lover, which it will use when it has been unkind
all a cold autumn day. And, even then, passed into my thought
a beam from its true sun, from its native sphere, which has
never since departed from me. I remembered how, a little
child. I had stopped myself one day on the stairs, and asked,
how came I here? How is it that I seem to be this Margaret
Fuller? What does it mean? What shall I do about it? I
remembered all the times and ways in which the same thought
had returned. I saw how long it must be before the soul can
learn to act under these limitations of time and space, and
human nature; but I saw, also, that it MUST do it,--that
it must make all this false true,--and sow new and immortal
plants in the garden of God, before it could return again. I
saw there was no self; that selfishness was all folly, and
the result of circumstance; that it was only because I thought
self real that I suffered; that I had only to live in the idea
of the ALL, and all was mine. This truth came to me, and I
received it unhesitatingly; so that I was for that hour taken
up into God. In that true ray most of the relations of earth
seemed mere films, phenomena. * *
'My earthly pain at not being recognized never went deep after
this hour. I had passed the extreme of passionate sorrow; and
all check, all failure, all ignorance, have seemed temporary
ever since. When I consider that this will be nine years ago
next November, I am astonished that I have not gone on faster
since; that I am not yet sufficiently purified to be taken
back to God. Still, I did but touch then on the only haven
of Insight. You know what I would say. I was dwelling in the
ineffable, the unutterable. But the sun of earth set, and it
grew dark around; the moment came for me to go. I had never
been accustomed to walk alone at night, for my father was very
strict on that subject, but now I had not one fear. When I
came back, the moon was riding clear above the houses. I went
into the churchyard, and there offered a prayer as holy, if
not as deeply true, as any I know now; a prayer, which perhaps
took form as the guardian angel of my life. If that word in
the Bible, Selah, means what gray-headed old men think it
does, when they read aloud, it should be written here,--Selah!
'Since that day, I have never more been completely engaged in
self; but the statue has been emerging, though slowly, from
the block. Others may not see the promise even of its pure
symmetry, but I do, and am learning to be patient. I shall be
all human yet; and then the hour will come to leave humanity,
and live always in the pure ray.
'This first day I was taken up; but the second time the Holy
Ghost descended like a dove. I went out again for a day, but
this time it was spring. I walked in the fields of Groton.
But I will not describe that day; its music still sounds
too sweetly near. Suffice it to say, I gave it all into our
Father's hands, and was no stern-weaving Fate more, but one
elected to obey, and love, and at last know. Since then I have
suffered, as I must suffer again, till all the complex be
made simple, but I have never been in discord with the grand
harmony.'