* * * * *
To one studying the signs of the times, it was quite instructive to
watch the moods of a mind so sensitive as Margaret's; for her delicate
meter indicated in advance each coming change in the air-currents of
thought. But I was chiefly interested in the processes whereby she was
gaining harmony and unity. The more one studied her, the more plainly
he saw that her peculiar power was the result of fresh, fervent,
exhaustless, and indomitable affections. The emotive force in her,
indeed, was immense in volume, and most various in tendency; and it
was wonderful to observe the outward equability of one inwardly so
impassioned.
This was, in fact, the first problem to be solved in gaining
real knowledge of her commanding character: "How did a person,
by constitution so impetuous, become so habitually serene?"
In temperament Margaret seemed a Bacchante,[A] prompt for wild
excitement, and fearless to tread by night the mountain forest, with
song and dance of delirious mirth; yet constantly she wore the laurel
in token of purification, and, with water from fresh fountains,
cleansed the statue of Minerva. Stagnancy and torpor were intolerable
to her free and elastic impulses; a brilliant fancy threw over each
place and incident Arcadian splendor; and eager desire, with energetic
purposes, filled her with the consciousness of large latent life:
and yet the lower instincts were duly subordinated to the higher, and
dignified self-control ordered her deportment. Somehow, according to
the doctrine of the wise Jacob Boehme, the fierce, hungry fire had
met in embrace the meek, cool water, and was bringing to birth
the pleasant light-flame of love. The transformation, though not
perfected, was fairly begun.
Partly I could see how this change had been wrought. Ill health, pain,
disappointment, care, had tamed her spirits. A wide range through
the romantic literature of ancient and modern times had exalted
while expending her passions. In the world of imagination, she had
discharged the stormful energy which would have been destructive in
actual life. And in thought she had bound herself to the mast while
sailing past the Sirens. Through sympathy, also, from childhood, with
the tragi-comedy of many lives around her, she had gained experience
of the laws and limitations of providential order. Gradually, too, she
had risen to higher planes of hope, whence opened wider prospects of
destiny and duty. More than all, by that attraction of opposites
which a strong will is most apt to feel, she had sought, as chosen
companions, persons of scrupulous reserve, of modest coolness,
and severe elevation of view. Finally, she had been taught, by a
discipline specially fitted to her dispositions, to trust the leadings
of the Divine Spirit. The result was, that at this period Margaret had
become a Mystic. Her prisoned emotions found the freedom they pined
for in contemplation of nature's exquisite harmonies,--in poetic
regards of the glory that enspheres human existence, when seen as a
whole from beyond the clouds,--and above all in exultant consciousness
of life ever influent from the All-Living.
A few passages from, her papers will best illustrate this proneness to
rapture.
'My tendency is, I presume, rather to a great natural than
to a deep religious life. But though others may be more
conscientious and delicate, few have so steady a faith in
Divine Love. I may be arrogant and impetuous, but I am never
harsh and morbid. May there not be a mediation, rather than a
conflict, between piety and genius? Greek and Jew, Italian and
Saxon, are surely but leaves on one stern, at last.'
* * * * *
'I am in danger of giving myself up to experiences till
they so steep me in ideal passion that the desired goal is
forgotten in the rich present. Yet I think I am learning how
to use life more wisely.'
* * * * *
'Forgive me, beautiful ones, who earlier learned the harmony
of your beings,--with whom eye, voice, and hand are already
true to the soul! Forgive me still some "lispings and
stammerings of the passionate age." Teach me,--me, also,--to
utter my paean in its full sweetness. These long lines are
radii from one centre; aid me to fill the circumference. Then
each moment, each act, shall be true. The pupil has found the
carbuncle,[B] but knows not yet how to use it day by day. But
"though his companions wondered at the pupil, the master loved
him." He loves me, my friends. Do ye trust me. Wash the tears
and black stains from the records of my life by the benignity
of a true glance; make each discord harmony, by striking
again the key-note; forget the imperfect interviews, burn the
imperfect letters, till at last the full song bursts forth,
the key-stone is given from heaven to the arch, the past is
all pardoned and atoned for, and we live forever in the Now.'
* *
* * * * *
'Henceforth I hope I shall not write letters thus full of
childish feeling; for in feeling I am indeed a child, and the
least of children. Soon I must return into the Intellect, for
_there_ in sight, at least, I am a man, and could write the
words very calmly and in steadfast flow. But, lately, the
intellect has been so subordinated to the soul, that I am
not free to enter the Basilikon, and plead and hear till I am
called. But let me not stay too long in this Sicilian valley,
gathering my flowers, for "night cometh."'
* * * * *
'The other evening, while hearing the Creation, in the music
of "There shoots the healing plant," I felt what I would ever
feel for suffering souls. Somewhere in nature is the Moly, the
Nepenthe, desired from the earliest ages of mankind. No wonder
the music dwelt so exultingly on the passage:--
"In native worth and honor clad."
Yes; even so would I ever see man. I will wait, and never
despair, through all the dull years.'
* * * * *
'I am "too fiery." Even so. Ceres put her foster child in the
fire because she loved him. If they thought so before, will
they not far more now? Yet I wish to be seen as I am, and
would lose all rather than soften away anything. Let my
friends be patient and gentle, and teach me to be so. I never
promised any one patience or gentleness, for those beautiful
traits are not natural to me; but I would learn them. Can I
not?'
* * * * *
'Of all the books, and men, and women, that have touched me
these weeks past, what has most entered my soul is the music
I have heard,--the masterly expression from that violin; the
triumph of the orchestra, after the exploits on the piano;
Braham, in his best efforts, when he kept true to the dignity
of art; the Messiah, which has been given on two successive
Sundays, and the last time in a way that deeply expressed its
divine life; but above all, Beethoven's seventh symphony. What
majesty! what depth! what tearful sweetness! what victory!
This was truly a fire upon an altar. There are a succession
of soaring passages, near the end of the third movement, which
touch me most deeply. Though soaring, they hold on with a
stress which almost breaks the chains of matter to the hearer.
O, how refreshing, after polemics and philosophy, to soar thus
on strong wings! Yes, Father, I will wander in dark ways with
the crowd, since thou seest best for me to be tied down.
But only in thy free ether do I know myself. When I read
Beethoven's life, I said, "I will never repine." When I heard
this symphony, I said, "I will triumph."
* * * * *
'To-day I have finished the life of Raphael, by Quatremere de
Quincy, which has so long engaged me. It scarce goes deeper
than a _catalogue raisonnée_, but is very complete in its way.
I could make all that splendid era alive to me, and inhale the
full flower of the Sanzio. Easily one soars to worship these
angels of Genius. To venerate the Saints you must well nigh be
one.
'I went out upon the lonely rock which commands so delicious
a panoramic view. A very mild breeze had sprung up after the
extreme heat. A sunset of the melting kind was succeeded by a
perfectly clear moon-rise. Here I sat, and thought of Raphael.
I was drawn high up in the heaven of beauty, and the mists
were dried from the white plumes of contemplation.'#/
'Only by emotion do we know thee, Nature. To lean upon thy
heart, and feel its pulses vibrate to our own;--that is
knowledge, for that is love, the love of infinite beauty, of
infinite love. Thought will never make us be born again.
'My fault is that I think I feel _too much_. O that my friends
would teach me that "simple art of not too much!" How can I
expect them to bear the ceaseless eloquence of my nature?'
* * * * *
'Often it has seemed that I have come near enough to the
limits to see what they are. But suddenly arises afar the Fata
Morgana, and tells of new Sicilies, of their flowery valleys
and fields of golden grain. Then, as I would draw near, my
little bark is shattered on the rock, and I am left on the
cold wave. Yet with my island in sight I do not sink.'
* * * * *
'I look not fairly to myself, at the present moment. If noble
growths are always slow, others may ripen far worthier fruit
than is permitted to my tropical heats and tornadoes. Let me
clasp the cross on my breast, as I have done a thousand times
before.'
'Let me but gather from the earth one full-grown fragrant flower;
Within my bosom let it bloom through, its one blooming hour;
Within my bosom let it die, and to its latest breath
My own shall answer, "Having lived, I shrink not now from death."
It is this niggard halfness that turns my heart to stone;
'T is the cup seen, not tasted, that makes the infant moan.
For once let me press firm my lips upon the moment's brow,
For once let me distinctly feel I am all happy now,
And bliss shall seal a blessing upon that moment's brow.'
'I was in a state of celestial happiness, which lasted a great
while. For months I was all radiant with faith, and love,
and life. I began to be myself. Night and day were equally
beautiful, and the lowest and highest equally holy. Before, it
had seemed as if the Divine only gleamed upon me; but then it
poured into and through me a tide of light. I have passed down
from the rosy mountain, now; but I do not forget its pure air,
nor how the storms looked as they rolled beneath my feet. I
have received my assurance, and if the shadows should lie upon
me for a century, they could never make me forgetful of the
true hour. Patiently I bide my time.'
The last passage describes a peculiar illumination, to which Margaret
often referred as the period when her earthly being culminated, and
when, in the noon-tide of loving enthusiasm, she felt wholly at one
with God, with Man, and the Universe. It was ever after, to her,
an earnest that she was of the Elect. In a letter to one of her
confidential female friends, she thus fondly looks back to this
experience on the mount of transfiguration:--
'You know how, when the leadings of my life found their
interpretation, I longed to share my joy with those I prized
most; for I felt that if they could but understand the past we
should meet entirely. They received me, some more, some less,
according to the degree of intimacy between our natures. But
now I have done with the past, and again move forward. The
path looks more difficult, but I am better able to bear its
trials. We shall have much communion, even if not in the
deepest places. I feel no need of isolation, but only of
temperance in thought and speech, that the essence may not
evaporate in words, but grow plenteous within. The Life will
give me to my own. I am not yet so worthy to love as some
others are, because my manifold nature is not yet harmonized
enough to be faithful, and I begin, to see how much it was the
want of a pure music in me that has made the good doubt me.
Yet have I been true to the best light I had, and if I am so
now much will be given.
'During my last weeks of solitude I was very happy, and all
that had troubled me became clearer. The angel was not weary
of waiting for Gunhilde, till she had unravelled her mesh of
thought, and seeds of mercy, of purification, were planted
in the breast. Whatever the past has been, I feel that I have
always been reading on and on, and that the Soul of all souls
has been patient in love to mine. New assurances were given
me, that if I would be faithful and humble, there was no
experience that would not tell its heavenly errand. If
shadows have fallen, already they give way to a fairer if more
tempered light; and for the present I am so happy that the
spirit kneels.
'Life, is richly worth living, with its continual revelations
of mighty woe, yet infinite hope: and I take it to my breast.
Amid these scenes of beauty, all that is little, foreign,
unworthy, vanishes like a dream. So shall it be some time
amidst the Everlasting Beauty, when true joy shall begin and
never cease.'
Filled thus as Margaret was with ecstasy, she was yet more than
willing,--even glad,--to bear her share in the universal sorrow. Well
she knew that pain must be proportioned to the fineness and fervor of
her organization; that the very keenness of her sensibility exposed
her to constant disappointment or disgust; that no friend, however
faithful, could meet the demands of desires so eager, of sympathies
so absorbing. Contrasted with her radiant visions, how dreary looked
actual existence; how galling was the friction of petty hindrances;
how heavy the yoke of drudging care! Even success seemed failure,
when measured by her conscious aim; and experience had brought out to
consciousness excesses and defects, which humbled pride while shaming
self-confidence. But suffering as she did with all the intensity of so
passionate a nature, Margaret still welcomed the searching discipline.
'It is only when Persephone returns from lower earth that she weds
Dyonysos, and passes from central sadness into glowing joy,' she
writes. And again: 'I have no belief in beautiful lives; we are born
to be mutilated; and the blood must flow till in every vein its place
is supplied by the Divine ichor.' And she reiterates: 'The method of
Providence with me is evidently that of "cross-biassing," as Herbert
hath it. In a word, to her own conscience and to intimate friends she
avowed, without reserve, that there was in her 'much rude matter that
needed to be spiritualized.' Comment would but weaken the pathos of
the following passages, in which so plainly appears a once wilful
temper striving, with child-like faith, to obey:--
'I have been a chosen one; the lesson of renunciation was
early, fully taught, and the heart of stone quite broken
through. The Great Spirit wished to leave me no refuge but
itself. Convictions have been given, enough to guide me many
years if I am steadfast. How deeply, how gratefully I feel
this blessing, as the fabric of others' hopes are shivering
round me. Peace will not always flow thus softly in my life;
but, O, our Father! how many hours has He consecrated to
Himself. How often has the Spirit chosen the time, when no ray
came from without, to descend upon the orphan life!'
* * * * *
'A humbler, tenderer spirit! Yes, I long for it. But how to
gain it? I see no way but prayerfully to bend myself to meet
the hour. Let friends be patient with me, and pardon some
faint-heartedness. The buds will shiver in the cold air when
the sheaths drop. It will not be so long. The word "Patience"
has been spoken; it shall be my talisman. A nobler courage
will be given, with gentleness and humility. My conviction is
clear that all my troubles are needed, and that one who has
had so much light thrown upon the path, has no excuse for
faltering steps.'
* * * * *
'Could we command enthusiasm; had we an interest with the gods
which would light up those sacred fires at will, we should be
even seraphic in our influences. But life, if not a complete
waste of wearisome hours, must be checkered with them; and I
find that just those very times, when I feel all glowing and
radiant in the happiness of receiving and giving out again the
divine fluid, are preludes to hours of languor, weariness, and
paltry doubt, born of---
"The secret soul's mistrust
To find her fair ethereal wings
Weighed down by vile, degraded dust."
'To this, all who have chosen or been chosen to a life of
thought must submit. Yet I rejoice in my heritage. Should I
venture to complain? Perhaps, if I were to reckon up the hours
of bodily pain, those passed in society with which I could
not coalesce, those of ineffectual endeavor to penetrate the
secrets of nature and of art, or, worse still, to reproduce
the beautiful in some way for myself, I should find they
far outnumbered those of delightful sensation, of full and
soothing thought, of gratified tastes and affections, and of
proud hope. Yet these last, if few, how lovely, how rich in
presage! None, who have known them, can in their worst estate
fail to hope that they may be again upborne to higher, purer
blue.'
* * * * *
'As I was steeped in the divine tenth book of the Republic,
came ----'s letter, in which he so insultingly retracts his
engagements. I finished the book obstinately, but could get
little good of it; then went to ask comfort of the descending
sun in the woods and fields. What a comment it was on the
disparity between my pursuits and my situation to receive
such a letter while reading that book! However, I will not let
life's mean perplexities blur from my eye the page of Plato;
nor, if natural tears must be dropt, murmur at a lot, which,
with all its bitterness, has given time and opportunity to
cherish an even passionate love for Truth and Beauty.'
* * * * *
'Black Friday it has been, and my heart is well nigh wearied
out. Shall I never be able to act and live with persons of
views high as my own? or, at least, with some steadiness of
feeling for me to calculate upon? Ah, me! what woes within and
without; what assaults of folly; what mean distresses; and,
oh, what wounds from cherished hands! Were ye the persons who
should stab thus? Had I, too, the Roman right to fold my
robe about me decently, and breathe the last sigh! The last!
Horrible, indeed, should sobs, deep as these, be drawn to all
eternity. But no; life could not hold out for more than one
lease of sorrow. This anguish, however, will be wearied out,
as I know by experience, alas! of how many such hours.'
* * * * *
'I am reminded to-day of the autumn hours at Jamaica Plain,
where, after arranging everything for others that they wanted
of me, I found myself, at last, alone in my still home, where
everything, for once, reflected my feelings. It was so still,
the air seemed full of spirits. How happy I was! with what
sweet and solemn happiness! All things had tended to a crisis
in me, and I was in a higher state, mentally and spiritually,
than I ever was before or shall be again, till death shall
introduce me to a new sphere. I purposed to spend the winter
in study and self-collection, and to write constantly. I
thought I should thus be induced to embody in beautiful
forms all that lay in my mind, and that life would ripen into
genius. But a very little while these fair hopes bloomed; and,
since I was checked then, I do never expect to blossom forth
on earth, and all postponements come naturally. At that time
it seemed as if angels left me. Yet, now, I think they still
are near. Renunciation appears to be entire, and I quite
content; yet, probably, 't is no such thing, and that work is
to be done over and over again.'
* * * * *
'Do you believe our prayers avail for one another? and that
happiness is good for the soul? Pray, then, for me, that I may
have a little peace,--some green and flowery spot, 'mid which
my thoughts may rest; yet not upon fallacy, but only upon
something genuine. I am deeply homesick, yet where is that
home? If not on earth, why should we look to heaven? I would
fain truly live wherever I must abide, and bear with full
energy on my lot, whatever it is. He, who alone knoweth,
will affirm that. I have tried to work whole-hearted from an
earnest faith. Yet my hand is often languid, and my heart is
slow. I would be gone; but whither? I know not; if I cannot
make this spot of ground yield the corn and roses, famine must
be my lot forever and ever, surely.'
* * * * *
'I remember how at a similar time of perplexity, when there
were none to counsel, hardly one to sympathize, and when the
conflicting wishes of so many whom I loved pressed the aching
heart on every side, after months of groping and fruitless
thought, the merest trifle precipitated the whole mass; all
became clear as crystal, and I saw of what use the tedious
preparation had been, by the deep content I felt in the
result.'
* * * * *
'Beethoven! Tasso! It is well to think of you! What sufferings
from baseness, from coldness! How rare and momentary were the
flashes of joy, of confidence and tenderness, in these noblest
lives! Yet could not their genius be repressed. The Eternal
Justice lives. O, Father, teach the spirit the meaning of
sorrow, and light up the generous fires of love and hope and
faith, without which I cannot live!'
* * * * *
'What signifies it that Thou dost always give me to drink more
deeply of the inner fountains? And why do I seek a reason for
these repulsions and strange arrangements of my mortal lot,
when I always gain from them a deeper love for all men, and a
deeper trust in Thee? Wonderful are thy ways! But lead me the
darkest and the coldest as Thou wilt.'
* * * * *
'Please, good Genius of my life, to make me very patient,
resolute, gentle, while no less ardent; and after having tried
me well, please present, at the end of some thousand years
or so, a sphere of congenial and consecutive labors; of
heart-felt, heart-filling wishes carried out into life on
the instant; of aims obviously, inevitably proportioned to my
highest nature. Sometime, in God's good time, let me live as
swift and earnest as a flash of the eye. Meanwhile, let me
gather force slowly, and drift along lazily, like yonder
cloud, and be content to end in a few tears at last.'
* * * * *
'To-night I lay on the sofa, and saw how the flame shot up
from beneath, through the mass of coal that had been
piled above. It shot up in wild beautiful jets, and then
unexpectedly sank again, and all was black, unsightly and
forlorn. And thus, I thought, is it with my life at present.
Yet if the fire beneath persists and conquers, that black dead
mass will become all radiant, life-giving, fit for the altar
or the domestic hearth. Yes, and it shall be so.'
* * * * *
'My tendency at present is to the deepest privacy. Where can I
hide till I am given to myself? Yet I love the others more and
more. When they are with me I must give them the best from
my scrip. I see their infirmities, and would fain heal them,
forgetful of my own! But am I left one moment alone, then, a
poor wandering pilgrim, but no saint, I would seek the shrine,
and would therein die to the world. Then if from the poor
relics some miracles might be wrought, that should be for my
fellows. Yet some of the saints were able to work in their
generation, for they had renounced all!'
* * * * *
'Forget, if you can, all of petulant or overstrained that may
have displeased you in me, and commend me in your prayers to
my best self. When, in the solitude of the spirit, comes upon
you some air from the distance, a breath of aspiration, of
faith, of pure tenderness, then believe that the Power which
has guided me so faithfully, emboldens my thoughts to frame a
prayer for you.'
* * * * *
'Beneath all pain inflicted by Nature, be not only serene, but
more; let it avail thee in prayer. Put up, at the moment of
greatest suffering, a prayer; not for thy own escape, but
for the enfranchisement of some being dear to thee, and the
Sovereign Spirit will accept thy ransom.'
* * * * *
'Strive, strive, my soul, to be innocent; yes! beneficent.
Does any man wound thee? not only forgive, but Work into thy
thought intelligence of the kind of pain, that thou mayest
never inflict it on another spirit. Then its work is done; it
will never search thy whole nature again. O, love much, and be
forgiven!'
* * * * *
'No! we cannot leave society while one clod remains unpervaded
by divine life. We cannot live and grow in consecrated earth,
alone. Let us rather learn to stand up like the Holy Father,
and with extended arms bless the whole world.'
* * * * *
'It will be happiness indeed, if, on passing this first stage,
we are permitted, in some degree, to alleviate the ills of
those we love,--to lead them on a little way; to aid them when
they call. Often it seems to me, it would be sweet to feel
that I had certainly conferred one benefit. All my poor little
schemes for others are apparently blighted, and now, as ever,
I am referred to the Secular year for the interpretation of my
moments.'
In one of Margaret's manuscripts is found this beautiful
symbol:--'There is a species of Cactus, from whose outer bark, if
torn by an ignorant person, there exudes a poisonous liquid; but the
natives, who know the plant, strike to the core, and there find a
sweet, refreshing juice, that renews their strength.' Surely the
preceding extracts prove that she was learning how to draw life-giving
virtue from the very heart of evil. No superficial experience of
sorrow embittered her with angry despair; but through profound
acceptance, she sought to imbibe, from every ill, peace, purity and
gentleness.
* * * * *
The two fiery trials through which she had been made to pass, and
through which she was yet to pass again and again,--obstruction to
the development of her genius, and loneliness of heart,--were the very
furnace needed to burn the dross from her gold, till it could fitly
image the Heavenly Refiner. By inherited traits, and indiscreet
treatment, self-love had early become so excessive that only severest
discipline could transmute it to disinterestedness. Pity for her own
misfortunes had, indeed, taught her to curb her youthful scorn
for mediocrity, and filled her with considerateness and delicate
sensibility. Constant experience, too, of the wonderful modes whereby
her fate was shaped by overruling mercy, had chastened her love of
personal sway, and her passion for a commanding career; and
Margaret could humble herself,--did often humble herself,--with an
all-resigning contrition, that was most touching to witness in one
naturally so haughty. Of this the following letter to a valued friend
gives illustration:--
'I ought, I know, to have laid aside my own cares and griefs,
been on the alert for intelligence that would gratify you,
and written letters such as would have been of use and given
pleasure to my wise, tender, ever faithful friend. But no; I
first intruded on your happiness with my sorrowful epistles,
and then, because you did not seem to understand my position,
with sullen petulance I resolved to write no more. Nay, worse;
I tried to harden my heart against you, and felt, "If you
cannot be all, you shall be nothing."
'It was a bad omen that I lost the locket you gave me, which
I had constantly worn. Had that been daily before my eyes,
to remind me of all your worth,--of the generosity with which
you, a ripe and wise character, received me to the privileges
of equal friendship; of the sincerity with which you reproved
and the love with which you pardoned my faults; of how much
you taught me, and bore with from me,--it would have softened
the flint of my heart, and I should have relaxed from my
isolation.
'How shall I apologize for feelings which I now recognize as
having been so cold, so bitter and unjust? I can only say
I have suffered greatly, till the tone of my spirits seems
destroyed. Since I have been at leisure to realize how very
ill I have been, under what constant pain and many annoyances
I have kept myself upright, and how, if I have not done
my work, I have learned my lesson to the end, I should be
inclined to excuse myself for every fault, except this neglect
and ingratitude against friends. Yet, if you can forgive, I
will try to forgive myself, and I do think I shall never so
deeply sin again.'
Yet, though thus frank to own to herself and to her peers her errors,
Margaret cherished a trust in her powers, a confidence in her destiny,
and an ideal of her being, place and influence, so lofty as to be
extravagant. In the morning-hour and mountain-air of aspiration, her
shadow moved before her, of gigantic size, upon the snow-white vapor.
In accordance with her earnest charge, 'Be true as Truth to me,' I
could not but expose this propensity to self-delusion; and her answer
is her best explanation and defence:--
'I protest against your applying to me, even in your
most transient thought, such an epithet as "determined
exaggeration." Exaggeration, if you will; but not determined.
No; I would have all open to the light, and would let my
boughs be pruned, when they grow rank and unfruitful, even if
I felt the knife to the quick of my being. Very fain would I
have a rational modesty, without self-distrust; and may
the knowledge of my failures leaven my soul, and check its
intemperance. If you saw me wholly, you would not, I think,
feel as you do; for you would recognize the force, that
regulates my life and tempers the ardor with an eventual
calmness. You would see, too, that the more I take my flight
in poetical enthusiasm, the stronger materials I bring back
for my nest. Certainly I am nowise yet an angel; but neither
am I an utterly weak woman, and far less a cold intellect.
God is rarely afar off. Exquisite nature is all around. Life
affords vicissitudes enough to try the energies of the human
will. I can pray, I can act, I can learn, I can constantly
immerse myself in the Divine Beauty. But I also need to
love my fellow-men, and to meet the responsive glance of my
spiritual kindred.'