'In the chamber of death, I prayed in very early years, "Give
me truth; cheat me by no illusion." O, the granting of this
prayer is sometimes terrible to me! I walk over the burning
ploughshares, and they sear my feet. Yet nothing but truth
will do; no love will serve that is not eternal, and as large
as the universe; no philanthropy in executing whose behests
I myself become unhealthy; no creative genius which bursts
asunder my life, to leave it a poor black chrysalid behind.
And yet this last is too true of me.'
She describes a visit made in May, 1844, at the house of some
valued friends in West Roxbury, and adds: 'We had a long and deep
conversation, happy in its candor. Truth, truth, thou art the great
preservative! Let free air into the mind, and the pestilence cannot
lurk in any corner.'
And she uses the following language in an earnest letter to another
friend:--
'My own entire sincerity, in every passage of life, gives me a
right to expect that I shall be met by no unmeaning phrases or
attentions.'
* * * * *
'Reading to-day a few lines of ----, I thought with
refreshment of such lives as T.'s, and V.'s, and W.'s, so
private and so true, where each line written is really the
record of a thought or a feeling. I hate poems which are
a melancholy monument of culture for the sake of being
cultivated, not of growing.'
Even in trifles, one might find with her the advantage and the
electricity of a little honesty. I have had from an eye-witness a note
of a little scene that passed in Boston, at the Academy of Music.
A party had gone early, and taken an excellent place to hear one of
Beethoven's symphonies. Just behind them were soon seated a young lady
and two gentlemen, who made an incessant buzzing, in spite of bitter
looks cast on them by the whole neighborhood, and destroyed all the
musical comfort. After all was over, Margaret leaned across one seat,
and catching the eye of this girl, who was pretty and well-dressed,
said, in her blandest, gentlest voice, "May I speak with you one
moment?" "Certainly," said the young lady, with a fluttered, pleased
look, bending forward. "I only wish to say," said Margaret, "that I
trust, that, in the whole course of your life, you will not suffer so
great a degree of annoyance as you have inflicted on a large party of
lovers of music this evening." This was said with the sweetest air, as
if to a little child, and it was as good as a play to see the change
of countenance which the young lady exhibited, who had no replication
to make to so Christian a blessing.
On graver occasions, the same habit was only more stimulated; and I
cannot remember certain passages which called it into play, without
new regrets at the costly loss which our community sustains in the
loss of this brave and eloquent soul.
People do not speak the truth, not for the want of not knowing
and preferring it, but because they have not the organ to speak it
adequately. It requires a clear sight, and, still more, a high spirit,
to deal with falsehood in the decisive way. I have known several
honest persons who valued truth as much as Peter and John, but, when
they tried to speak it, _they_ grew red and black in the face instead
of Ananias, until, after a few attempts, they decided that aggressive
truth was not their vocation, and confined themselves thenceforward
to silent honesty, except on rare occasions, when either an extreme
outrage, or a happier inspiration, loosened their tongue. But a soul
is now and then incarnated, whom indulgent nature has not afflicted
with any cramp or frost, but who can speak the right word at the right
moment, qualify the selfish and hypocritical act with its real name,
and, without any loss of serenity, hold up the offence to the purest
daylight. Such a truth-speaker is worth more than the best police, and
more than the laws or governors; for these do not always know their
own side, but will back the crime for want of this very truth-speaker
to expose them. That is the theory of the newspaper,--to supersede
official by intellectual influence. But, though the apostles establish
the journal, it usually happens that, by some strange oversight,
Ananias slips into the editor's chair. If, then, we could be provided
with a fair proportion of truth-speakers, we could very materially and
usefully contract the legislative and the executive functions. Still,
the main sphere for this nobleness is private society, where so
many mischiefs go unwhipped, being out of the cognizance of law,
and supposed to be nobody's business. And society is, at all times,
suffering for want of judges and headsmen, who will mark and lop these
malefactors.
Margaret suffered no vice to insult her presence, but called the
offender to instant account, when the law of right or of beauty was
violated. She needed not, of course, to go out of her way to find the
offender, and she never did, but she had the courage and the skill to
cut heads off which were not worn with honor in her presence. Others
might abet a crime by silence, if they pleased; she chose to clear
herself of all complicity, by calling the act by its name.
It was curious to see the mysterious provocation which the mere
presence of insight exerts in its neighborhood. Like moths about a
lamp, her victims voluntarily came to judgment: conscious persons,
encumbered with egotism; vain persons, bent on concealing some
mean vice; arrogant reformers, with some halting of their own; the
compromisers, who wished to reconcile right and wrong;--all came and
held out their palms to the wise woman, to read their fortunes, and
they were truly told. Many anecdotes have come to my ear, which show
how useful the glare of her lamp proved in private circles, and what
dramatic situations it created. But these cannot be told. The valor
for dragging the accused spirits among his acquaintance to the stake
is not in the heart of the present writer. The reader must be content
to learn that she knew how, without loss of temper, to speak with
unmistakable plainness to any party, when she felt that the truth or
the right was injured. For the same reason, I omit one or two
letters, most honorable both to her mind and heart, in which she felt
constrained to give the frankest utterance to her displeasure. Yet I
incline to quote the testimony of one witness, which is so full and so
pointed, that I must give it as I find it.
"I have known her, by the severity of her truth, mow down a crop of
evil, like the angel of retribution itself, and could not sufficiently
admire her courage. A conversation she had with Mr. ----, just before
he went to Europe, was one of these things; and there was not a
particle of ill-will in it, but it was truth which she could not help
seeing and uttering, nor he refuse to accept.
"My friends told me of a similar verdict, pronounced upon Mr. ----, at
Paris, which they said was perfectly tremendous. They themselves
sat breathless; Mr. ---- was struck dumb; his eyes fixed on her with
wonder and amazement, yet gazing too with an attention which seemed
like fascination. When she had done, he still looked to see if she was
to say more, and when he found she had really finished, he arose, took
his hat, said faintly, 'I thank you.' and left the room. He afterwards
said to Mr. ----, 'I never shall speak ill of her. She has done me
good.' And this was the greater triumph, for this man had no theories
of impersonality, and was the most egotistical and irritable of
self-lovers, and was so unveracious, that one had to hope in charity
that his organ for apprehending truth was deficient."