'I like to hear you express your sense of my defects. The
word "arrogance" does not, indeed, appear to me to be just;
probably because I do not understand what you mean. But in due
time I doubtless shall; for so repeatedly have you used it,
that it must stand for something real in my large and rich,
yet irregular and unclarified nature. But though I like to
hear you, as I say, and think somehow your reproof does me
good, by myself, I return to my native bias, and feel as if
there was plenty of room in the universe for my faults, and
as if I could not spend time in thinking of them, when so
many things interest me more. I have no defiance or coldness,
however, as to these spiritual facts which I do not know;
but I must follow my own law, and bide my time, even if, like
Oedipus, I should return a criminal, blind and outcast, to
ask aid from the gods. Such possibilities, I confess, give
me great awe; for I have more sense than most, of the tragic
depths that may open suddenly in the life. Yet, believing in
God, anguish cannot be despair, nor guilt perdition. I feel
sure that I have never wilfully chosen, and that my life has
been docile to such truth as was shown it. In an environment
like mine, what may have seemed too lofty or ambitious in
my character was absolutely needed to keep the heart from
breaking and enthusiasm from extinction.'
Such Egoism as this, though lacking the angel grace of
unconsciousness, has a stoical grandeur that commands respect. Indeed,
in all that Margaret spoke, wrote, or did, no cynic could detect the
taint of meanness. Her elation came not from opium fumes of vanity,
inhaled in close chambers of conceit, but from the stimulus of
sunshine, fresh breezes, and swift movement upon the winged steed of
poesy. Her existence was bright with romantic interest to herself.
There was an amplitude and elevation in her aim, which were worthy, as
she felt, of human honor and of heavenly aid; and she was buoyed up
by a courageous good-will, amidst all evils, that she knew would have
been recognized as heroic in the chivalric times, when "every morning
brought a noble chance." Neither was her self-regard of an engrossing
temper. On the contrary, the sense of personal dignity taught her
the worth of the lowliest human being, and her intense desire for
harmonious conditions quickened a boundless compassion for the
squalid, downcast, and drudging multitude. She aspired to live in
majestic fulness of benignant and joyful activity, leaving a track of
light with every footstep; and, like the radiant Iduna, bearing to
man the golden apples of immortality, she would have made each meeting
with her fellows rich with some boon that should never fade, but
brighten in bloom forever.
This characteristic self-esteem determined the quality of Margaret's
influence, which was singularly penetrating, and most beneficent where
most deeply and continuously felt. Chance acquaintance with her, like
a breath from the tropics, might have prematurely burst the buds of
feeling in sensitive hearts, leaving after blight and barrenness.
Natures, small in compass and of fragile substance, might have been
distorted and shattered by attempts to mould themselves on her grand
model. And in her seeming unchartered impulses,--whose latent law was
honorable integrity,--eccentric spirits might have found encouragement
for capricious license. Her morbid subjectivity, too, might, by
contagion, have affected others with undue self-consciousness.
And, finally, even intimate friends might have been tempted, by
her flattering love, to exaggerate their own importance, until they
recognized that her regard for them was but one niche in a Pantheon
at whose every shrine she offered incense. But these ill effects were
superficial accidents. The peculiarity of her power was to make all
who were in concert with her feel the miracle of existence. She lived
herself with such concentrated force in the moments, that she was
always effulgent with thought and affection,--with conscience,
courage, resource, decision, a penetrating and forecasting wisdom.
Hence, to associates, her presence seemed to touch even common scenes
and drudging cares with splendor, as when, through the scud of
a rain-storm, sunbeams break from serene blue openings, crowning
familiar things with sudden glory. By manifold sympathies, yet central
unity, she seemed in herself to be a goodly company, and her words
and deeds imparted the virtue of a collective life. So tender was her
affection, that, like a guardian genius, she made her friends' souls
her own, and identified herself with their fortunes; and yet, so pure
and high withal was her justice, that, in her recognition of their
past success and present claims, there came a summons for fresh
endeavor after the perfect. The very thought of her roused manliness
to emulate the vigorous freedom, with which one was assured, that
wherever placed she was that instant acting; and the mere mention
of her name was an inspiration of magnanimity, and faithfulness, and
truth.
'"Sincere has been their striving; great their love,"
'is a sufficient apology for any life,' wrote Margaret; and how
preëminently were these words descriptive of herself. Hers was indeed
"The equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will,
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."
This indomitable aspiration found utterance in the following verses,
on
'SUB ROSA CRUX.
'In times of old, as we are told,
When men more childlike at the feet
Of Jesus sat than now,
A chivalry was known, more bold
Than ours, and yet of stricter vow,
And worship more complete.
'Knights of the Rosy Cross! they bore
Its weight within the breast, but wore
Without the sign, in glistening ruby bright.
The gall and vinegar they drank alone,
But to the world at large would only own
The wine of faith, sparkling with rosy light.
'They knew the secret of the sacred oil,
Which, poured upon the prophet's head,
Could keep him wise and pure for aye,
Apart from all that might distract or soil;
With this their lamps they fed,
Which burn in their sepulchral shrines,
Unfading night and day.
'The pass-word now is lost
To that initiation full and free;
Daily we pay the cost
Of our slow schooling for divine degree.
We know no means to feed an undying lamp,
Our lights go out in every wind and damp.
'We wear the cross of Ebony and Gold,
Upon a dark back-ground a form of light,
A heavenly hope within a bosom cold,
A starry promise in a frequent night;
And oft the dying lamp must trim again,
For we are conscious, thoughtful, striving men.
'Yet be we faithful to this present trust,
Clasp to a heart resigned this faithful Must;
Though deepest dark our efforts should enfold,
Unwearied mine to find the vein of gold;
Forget not oft to waft the prayer on high;--
The rosy dawn again shall fill the sky.
'And by that lovely light all truth revealed,--
The cherished forms, which sad distrust concealed,
Transfigured, yet the same, will round us stand,
The kindred angels of a faithful band;
Ruby and ebon cross then cast aside,
No lamp more needed, for the night has died.
'"Be to the best thou knowest ever true,"
Is all the creed.
Then be thy talisman of rosy hue,
Or fenced with thorns, that wearing, thou must bleed,
Or, gentle pledge of love's prophetic view,
The faithful steps it will securely lead.
'Happy are all who reach that distant shore,
And bathe in heavenly day;
Happiest are those who high the banner bore,
To marshal others on the way,
Or waited for them, fainting and way-worn,
By burthens overborne.'
[Footnote A: This sentence was written before I was aware that
Margaret, as will be seen hereafter, had used the same symbol to
describe Madame Sand. The first impulse, of course, when I discovered
this coincidence, was to strike out the above passage; yet, on second
thought, I have retained it, as indicating an actual resemblance
between these two grand women. In Margaret, however, the benediction
of their noble-hearted sister, Elizabeth Barrett, had already been
fulfilled; for she to "woman's claim" had ever joined
"the angel-grace
Of a pure genius sanctified from blame."]
[Footnote B: Novalis.]