It was while Margaret was residing at Jamaica Plain, in the summer of
1839, that we first really met as friends, though for several years
previous we had been upon terms of kindest mutual regard. And, as the
best way of showing how her wonderful character opened upon me, the
growth of our acquaintance shall be briefly traced.
The earliest recollection of Margaret is as a schoolmate of my
sisters, in Boston. At that period she was considered a prodigy of
talent and accomplishment; but a sad feeling prevailed, that she had
been overtasked by her father, who wished to train her like a boy,
and that she was paying the penalty for undue application, in
nearsightedness, awkward manners, extravagant tendencies of thought,
and a pedantic style of talk, that made her a butt for the ridicule
of frivolous companions. Some seasons later, I call to mind seeing, at
the "Commencements" and "Exhibitions" of Harvard University, a girl,
plain in appearance, but of dashing air, who was invariably the centre
of a listening group, and kept their merry interest alive by sparkles
of wit and incessant small-talk. The bystanders called her familiarly,
"Margaret," "Margaret Fuller;" for, though young, she was already
noted for conversational gifts, and had the rare skill of attracting
to her society, not spirited collegians only, but men mature in
culture and of established reputation. It was impossible not to admire
her fluency and fun; yet, though curiosity was piqued as to this
entertaining personage, I never sought an introduction, but, on the
contrary, rather shunned encounter with one so armed from head to foot
in saucy sprightliness.
About 1830, however, we often met in the social circles of Cambridge,
and I began to observe her more nearly. At first, her vivacity,
decisive tone, downrightness, and contempt of conventional standards,
continued to repel. She appeared too _intense_ in expression, action,
emphasis, to be pleasing, and wanting in that _retenue_ which we
associate with delicate dignity. Occasionally, also, words flashed
from her of such scathing satire, that prudence counselled the keeping
at safe distance from a body so surcharged with electricity. Then,
again, there was an imperial--shall it be said imperious?--air,
exacting deference to her judgments and loyalty to her behests,
that prompted pride to retaliatory measures. She paid slight heed,
moreover, to the trim palings of etiquette, but swept through the
garden-beds and into the doorway of one's confidence so cavalierly,
that a reserved person felt inclined to lock himself up in his
sanctum. Finally, to the coolly-scanning eye, her friendships wore a
look of such romantic exaggeration, that she seemed to walk enveloped
in a shining fog of sentimentalism. In brief, it must candidly be
confessed, that I then suspected her of affecting the part of a Yankee
Corinna.
But soon I was charmed, unaware, with the sagacity of her sallies, the
profound thoughts carelessly dropped by her on transient topics,
the breadth and richness of culture manifested in her allusions
or quotations, her easy comprehension of new views, her just
discrimination, and, above all, her _truthfulness_. "Truth at all
cost," was plainly her ruling maxim. This it was that made her
criticism so trenchant, her contempt of pretence so quick and stern,
her speech so naked in frankness, her gaze so searching, her whole
attitude so alert. Her estimates of men, books, manners, events, art,
duty, destiny, were moulded after a grand ideal; and she was a severe
judge from the very loftiness of her standard. Her stately deportment,
border though it might on arrogance, but expressed high-heartedness.
Her independence, even if haughty and rash, was the natural action
of a self-centred will, that waited only fit occasion to prove itself
heroic. Her earnestness to read the hidden history of others was
the gauge of her own emotion. The enthusiasm that made her speech
so affluent, when measured by the average scale, was the unconscious
overflow of a poetic temperament. And the ardor of her friends'
affection proved the faithfulness of her love. Thus gradually the mist
melted away, till I caught a glimpse of her real self. We were one
evening talking of American literature,--she contrasting its boyish
crudity, half boastful, half timid, with the tempered, manly equipoise
of thorough-bred European writers, and I asserting that in its mingled
practicality and aspiration might be read bright auguries; when,
betrayed by sympathy, she laid bare her secret hope of what Woman
might be and do, as an author, in our Republic. The sketch was an
outline only, and dashed off with a few swift strokes, but therein
appeared her own portrait, and we were strangers no more.
It was through the medium of others, however, that at this time I best
learned to appreciate Margaret's nobleness of nature and principle. My
most intimate friend in the Theological School, James Freeman Clarke,
was her constant companion in exploring the rich gardens of German
literature; and from his descriptions I formed a vivid image of her
industry, comprehensiveness, buoyancy, patience, and came to honor
her intelligent interest in high problems of science, her
aspirations after spiritual greatness, her fine æsthetic taste, her
religiousness. By power to quicken other minds, she showed how living
was her own. Yet more near were we brought by common attraction toward
a youthful visitor in our circle, the untouched freshness of whose
beauty was but the transparent garb of a serene, confiding, and
harmonious soul, and whose polished grace, at once modest and naïve,
sportive and sweet, fulfilled the charm of innate goodness of heart.
Susceptible in temperament, anticipating with ardent fancy the lot of
a lovely and refined woman, and morbidly exaggerating her own slight
personal defects, Margaret seemed to long, as it were, to transfuse
with her force this nymph-like form, and to fill her to glowing with
her own lyric fire. No drop of envy tainted the sisterly love,
with which she sought by genial sympathy thus to live in another's
experience, to be her guardian-angel, to shield her from contact with
the unworthy, to rouse each generous impulse, to invigorate thought
by truth incarnate in beauty, and with unfelt ministry to weave bright
threads in her web of fate. Thus more and more Margaret became
an object of respectful interest, in whose honor, magnanimity and
strength I learned implicitly to trust.
Separation, however, hindered our growing acquaintance, as we both
left Cambridge, and, with the exception of a few chance meetings in
Boston and a ramble or two in the glens and on the beaches of Rhode
Island, held no further intercourse till the summer of 1839, when, as
has been already said, the friendship, long before rooted, grew up and
leafed and bloomed.