Testament, and this reading is in some of the schools, and would,
but for a diffident piety, be followed in all, by devotions and the
singing of some suitable morning hymn. The spoken prayers and
praises are not enjoined by our rules; and we think we show therein
that tender courtesy to the faiths of the heart that true piety
loves and cannot overstep. An earnest and sweet disposition is the
spring from which children love to taste, and best always if
insinuated softly in mild persuasions, and so leading to the
practice of the loves and graces that soften and save. A course of
readings from the Picture Testament might favor the best ends of
spiritual culture. A child should be approached with reverence, as
a recipient of the spirit from above. The best of books claims the
best of persons and the gracious moments to make its meanings
clear; else the reading and listening are but a sound, a pretence,
and of no account. I have wished these books were opened with the
awe belonging to the eminent Personalities portrayed therein,
thinking them best read when the glow of sentiment kindles the
meaning into life in the morning hour--the teacher opening her
school by opening their leaves."
The following earnest words respecting the duties of the State in regard
to the education of its children, may fitly close these fragmentary
extracts, which give but the scantiest notions of the richness of
suggestion in these reports:
"It is difficult to reach the sources of ignorance and consequent
crime in a community like ours, calling itself free, and boasting
of its right to do what it will. But freedom is a social not less
than an individual concern, and the end of the State is to protect
it. The first object of a free people is the preservation of their
liberties. It becomes, then, their first duty to assume the
training of all the children in the principles of right knowledge
and virtue, as the only safeguard of their liberties. We cannot
afford to wait at such hazards. The simplest humanities are also
the least costly, and the nearest home. We should begin there. The
State is stabbed at the hearth-side and here liberty and honor are
first sold. It is injured by family neglect, and should protect
itself in securing its children's virtue against their parents'
vices; for, by so doing, can it alone redeem its pledges to
humanity and its citizens' liberties. A virtuous education is the
greatest alms it can bestow on any of its children."
Meetings for conversation with the parents of the scholars were a device
of Mr. Alcott for bringing the subject of education home to those whose
concern in it should be the deepest.
His faith was from the first in conversation, rather than in lecturing
or in preaching. Preaching assumed too much in the single mind, paid
less than due respect to the minds of the hearers, and gave no
opportunity for the instant exchange of thoughts. Lecturing was
intellectual and even less sympathetic. By conversation the best was
drawn out and the best imparted. All were put on an equality; all were
encouraged, none oppressed.
"Truth," Mr. Alcott declares "is spherical, and seen differently
according to the culture, temperament and disposition of those who
survey it from their individual standpoint. Of two or more sides,
none can be absolutely right, and conversation fails if it find not
the central truth from which all radiate; debate is angular,
conversation circular and radiant of the underlying unity. Who
speaks, deeply excludes all possibility of controversy. His
affirmation is self-sufficient; his assumption final, absolute.
Thus holding himself above the arena of dispute he gracefully
settles a question by speaking so home to the core of the matter as
to undermine the premise upon which an issue had been taken. For
whoso speaks to the personality dives beneath the grounds of
difference, and deals face to face with principles and ideas."
"Good discourse sinks differences and seeks agreements. It avoids
argument, by finding a common basis of agreement; and thus escapes
controversy by rendering it superfluous. Pertinent to the platform,
debate is out of place in the parlor. Persuasion is the better
weapon in this glittering game."
"Conversation presupposes a common sympathy in the subject, a great
equality in the speakers; absence of egotism, a tender criticism of
what is spoken. Good discourse wins from the bashful and discreet
what they have to speak, but would not, without this provocation.
The forbidding faces are Fates to overbear and blemish true
fellowship. We give what we are, not necessarily what we know;
nothing more, nothing less, and only to our kind; those playing
best their parts who have the nimblest wits, taking out the
egotism, the nonsense, putting wisdom, information in their place."
Mr. Alcott therefore forsook the platform, seldom entered the pulpit,
adopted the parlor, and made it what its name imports, the talking
place. Collecting a company of ladies and gentlemen, larger or smaller,
as nearly as possible of similar tastes and culture, he started a topic
of general interest and broad scope--usually one of social concern with
deep roots and wide branches,--and began his soliloquy in a calm and
easy strain, throwing out suggestions as he went on, and enticing
thoughts from the various minds present. If none responded or
accompanied, the discourse proceeded evenly till the measure of an hour
was filled. If the company was awake, and sympathetic, the soliloquy
became conversation and an evening full of instruction and entertainment
followed. When circumstances favored--the room, decorations, atmosphere,
mingling of elements--the season was delightful. The unfailing serenity
of the leader, his wealth of mental resource, his hospitality of
thought, his wit, his extraordinary felicity of language, his delicacy
of touch, ready appreciation of different views, and singular grace in
turning opinions towards the light, made it clear to all present that to
this especial calling he was chosen. For years Mr. Alcott's
conversations have been a recognized institution in Eastern and Western
cities. Every winter he takes the field, and goes through the Northern
and North Western States, with his scheme of topics. The best minds
collect about him, and centres of influence are established that act as
permanent distributors of culture. The noble idealism never pales or
falters. Neither politics, science, financial convulsion, or civil war,
disturb the calm serenity of the soul that is sure that mind is its own
place, and that infinite and absolute mind is supreme above all.
XI.
THE CRITIC.
Margaret Fuller--she was called Ossoli long after the time
we are concerned with, in a foreign land and amid foreign
associations--Margaret Fuller died July 16th, 1850. In 1852 her Memoirs
were published in Boston, written by Ralph Waldo Emerson, James Freeman
Clarke, and William Henry Channing: each giving an individual and
personal account of her. These three gentlemen--all remarkable for
intellectual capacity, sympathetic appreciation, and literary
skill--undertook their task in the spirit of loving admiration, and
executed it with extraordinary frankness, courage and delicacy. No more
unique or satisfactory book of biography was ever made. They had known
Margaret personally and well; were intimately acquainted with her mind,
and deeply interested in her character. They had access to all the
necessary materials. The whole life--inward and outward--was open to
them, and they described it with no more reserve than good taste
imposed. Those who are interested to know what sort of a person she was,
are referred to that book, from which the biographical materials for
this little sketch have, in the main, been taken. Her place here is due
to her association with the leaders of the Transcendental movement, and
to the peculiar part she played in it.
Strictly speaking, she was not a Transcendentalist, though Mr. Channing
declares her to have been "in spirit and thought pre-eminently a
transcendentalist;" and Mr. Alcott wrote that she adopted "the spiritual
philosophy, and had the subtlest perception of its bearings." She was
enthusiastic rather than philosophical, and poetic more than systematic.
Emerson's judgment is that--
"Left to herself, and in her correspondence, she was much the
victim of Lord Bacon's _idols of the cave_, or self-deceived by her
own phantasms.... Her letters are tainted with a mysticism which,
to me, appears so much an affair of constitution, that it claims no
more respect than the charity or patriotism of a man who has dined
well and feels better for it. In our noble Margaret, her personal
feeling colors all her judgment of persons, of books, of pictures,
and even of the laws of the world.... Whole sheets of warm, florid
writing are here, in which the eye is caught by 'sapphire,'
'heliotrope,' 'dragon,' 'aloes,' 'Magna Dea,' 'limboes,' 'stars,'
and 'purgatory'--but one can connect all this or any part of it
with no universal experience.
"In short, Margaret often loses herself in sentimentalism; that
dangerous vertigo nature, in her case, adopted, and was to make
respectable.... Her integrity was perfect, and she was led and
followed by love; and was really bent on truth, but too indulgent
to the meteors of her fancy."
She said of herself:
"When I was in Cambridge I got Fichte and Jacobi; I was much
interrupted, but some time and earnest thought I devoted; Fichte I
could not understand at all, though the treatise which I read was
one intended to be popular, and which he says must compel to
conviction. Jacobi I could understand in details, but not in
system. It seemed to me that his mind must have been moulded by
some other mind, with which I ought to be acquainted, in order to
know him well--perhaps Spinoza's. Since I came home I have been
consulting Buhle's and Tennemann's histories of philosophy, and
dipping into Brown, Stewart, and that class of books."
This was in 1832, before the transcendental movement began. At the same
period, writing to a friend on the subject of religious faith--a subject
intimately allied with philosophy--she said:
"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."
The tone of this extract is negatively transcendental; that is, it
implies that the writer did not belong to the opposite school, in any
sense; and that her mind was in condition to accept the cardinal truths
of a philosophy, the special doctrines whereof she did not apprehend or
feel interested in. Had she entertained a philosophical creed, it would
have been the creed of Schelling, more likely than any other.
Margaret Fuller was a critic, and a critic rather from natural gift than
from trained perception. Her genius was her guide. Persons and things
came to her for judgment, and judgment they received. Searching and
frank, but hearty and loving, she judged from the inside. To her, so her
biographers tell, with unanimous voice, "the secrets of all hearts were
revealed." In private intercourse, in letters, in parlor conversations
on books, pictures, statues, architecture, she was ever the judge. The
most unlike minds and characters receive their dues with entire
impartiality; Goethe, Lessing, Novalis, Jean Paul, were each in kind
honored. The last is "infinitely variegated, and certainly most
exquisitely colored, but fatigues attention; his philosophy and religion
seem to be of the sighing sort." She is steeped to the lips in enjoyment
by Southey, whom she was inclined to place next to Wordsworth.
Coleridge, Heine, Carlyle, Herschel, attract her mind. She ponders
before Michael Angelo's sibyls; displays a singular penetration in her
analysis of them, and makes them all interpreters of the genius of
woman. The soul of Greek art, as contrasted with Christian, is disclosed
to her with a clear perception; the Greek mythology gave up to her its
secret; emblems, symbols, dark parables, enigmas, mysteries, laid aside
their vails. A friend said of her: "She proceeds in her search after the
unity of things, the divine harmony, not by exclusion but by
comprehension; and so no poorest, saddest spirit but she will lead to
hope and faith. I have thought, sometimes, that her acceptance of evil
was _too_ great; that her theory of the good to be educed proved too
much; but I understand her now better than I did." Atkinson, the
"mesmeric atheist," struck her as "a fine instinctive nature, with a
head for Leonardo to paint," who "seems bound by no tie, yet looks as if
he had relatives in every place." Mazzini impressed her as one "in whom
holiness has purified, but somewhat dwarfed the man." Carlyle "is
arrogant and overbearing; but in his arrogance there is no bitterness,
no self-love. It is the heroic arrogance of some old Scandinavian
conqueror; it is his nature, and the untamable energy that has given him
power to crush the dragon." Dr. Wilkinson, the Swedenborgian, is "a
sane, strong, well-exercised mind; but in the last degree unpoetical in
its structure; very simple, natural, and good; excellent to see, though
one cannot go far with him." Rachel, Fourier, Rousseau--she has a
piercing glance for them all; a word of warm admiration, all the more
weighty for being qualified by criticism.
It was probably this keen penetration, this capacity to appreciate all
kinds, this inclusiveness of sympathy, that prompted the selection of
Margaret Fuller as chief editor of the "Dial," the organ of
transcendental thought. Thus she regarded the enterprise:
"What others can do--whether all that has been said is the mere
restlessness of discontent, or there are thoughts really struggling
for utterance,--will be tested now. A perfectly free organ is to be
offered for the expression of individual thought and character.
There are no party measures to be carried, no particular standards
to be set up; a fair, calm tone, a recognition of universal
principles, will, I hope, pervade the essays in every form. I trust
there will be a spirit neither of dogmatism nor compromise, and
that this journal will aim, not at leading public opinion, but at
stimulating each man to judge for himself, and to think more deeply
and more nobly, by letting him see how some minds are kept alive by
a wise self-trust. We must not be sanguine at the amount of talent
which will be brought to bear on this publication. All concerned
are rather indifferent, and there is no great promise for the
present. We cannot show high culture, and I doubt about vigorous
thought. But we shall manifest free action as far as it goes, and a
high aim. It were much if a periodical could be kept open, not to
accomplish any outward object, but merely to afford an avenue for
what of liberal and calm thought might be originated among us, by
the wants of individual minds."
"Mr. Emerson best knows what he wants; but he has already said it
in various ways. Yet this experiment is well worth trying; hearts
beat so high, they must be full of something, and here is a way to
breathe it out quite freely. It is for dear New England that I want
this review. For myself, if I had wished to write a few pages now
and then, there were ways and means enough of disposing of them.
But in truth I have not much to say; for since I have had leisure
to look at myself, I find that, so far from being an original
genius, I have not yet learned to think to any depth, and that the
utmost I have done in life has been to form my character to a
certain consistency, cultivate my tastes, and learn to tell the
truth with a little better grace than I did at first. For this the
world will not care much, so I shall hazard a few critical remarks
only, or an unpretending chalk sketch now and then till I have
learned to do something. There will be beautiful poesies; about
prose we know not yet so well. We shall be the means of publishing
the little Charles Emerson left as a mark of his noble course, and,
though it lies in fragments, all who read will be gainers."
That these modest anticipations were justified and more, need not be
said. The "beautiful poesies" came, and so did the various, eloquent,
well-considered prose. The people who expected the whole gospel of
Transcendentalism may have been disappointed; for the editor gave the
magazine more of a literary than philosophical or reformatory tone. That
she looked for from others, and was more than willing to welcome. She
had a discerning eye for the evils of the time, and a sincere respect
for the men and women who were disposed to counteract them. Another
extract from her correspondence at this time--1840--taken, like the
former, from the second volume of the memoirs, leaves no doubt on this
point. After speaking of "the tendency of circumstances," since the
separation from England, "to make our people superficial, irreverent,
and more anxious to get a living than to live mentally and morally," she
continues:
"New England is now old enough, some there have leisure enough to
look at all this, and the consequence is a violent reaction, in a
small minority, against a mode of culture that rears such fruits.
They see that political freedom does not necessarily produce
liberality of mind, nor freedom in church institutions, vital
religion; and, seeing that these changes cannot be wrought from
without inwards, they are trying to quicken the soul, that they may
work from within outwards. Disgusted with the vulgarity of a
commercial aristocracy, they become radicals; disgusted with the
materialistic working of "rational" religion they become mystics.
They quarrel with all that is because it is not spiritual enough.
They would, perhaps, be patient, if they thought this the mere
sensuality of childhood in our nation, which it might outgrow; but
they think that they see the evil widening, deepening, not only
debasing the life, but corrupting the thought of our people; and
they feel that if they know not well what should be done, yet that
the duty of every good man is to utter a protest against what is
done amiss. Is this protest undiscriminating? Are these opinions
crude? Do these proceedings threaten to sap the bulwarks on which
men at present depend? I confess it all, yet I see in these men
promise of a better wisdom than in their opponents. Their hope for
man is grounded on his destiny as an immortal soul, and not as a
mere comfort-loving inhabitant of earth, or as a subscriber to the
social contract. It was not meant that the soul should cultivate
the earth, but that the earth should educate and maintain the soul.
Man is not made for society, but society is made for man. No
institution can be good which does not tend to improve the
individual. In these principles I have confidence so profound, that
I am not afraid to trust those who hold them, despite their partial
views, imperfectly developed characters, and frequent want of
practical sagacity. I believe, if they have opportunity to state
and discuss their opinions, they will gradually sift them,
ascertain their grounds and aims with clearness, and do the work
this country needs. I hope for them as for the 'leaven that is
hidden in the bushel of meal till all be leavened.' The leaven is
not good by itself, neither is the meal; let them combine, and we
shall yet have bread."
"Utopia it is impossible to build up; at least, my hopes for the
race on this one planet are more limited than those of most of my
friends; I accept the limitations of human nature, and believe a
wise acknowledgment of them one of the best conditions of progress;
yet every noble scheme, every poetic manifestation, prophesies to
man his eventual destiny; and were not man ever more sanguine than
facts at the moment justify, he would remain torpid, or be sunk in
sensuality. It is on this ground that I sympathize with what is
called the 'Transcendental Party,' and that I feel their aim to be
the true one. They acknowledge in the nature of man an arbiter for
his deeds--a standard transcending sense and time--and are, in my
view, the true utilitarians. They are but at the beginning of their
course, and will, I hope, learn to make use of the past, as well as
to aspire for the future, and to be true in the present moment."
Margaret Fuller's power lay in her faith in this spiritual capacity. The
confidence began with herself, and was extended to all others, without
exception. Mr. Channing says:
"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."
Mr. Clarke says:
"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 was ever
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."
Speaking of her demands on others, her three biographers agree that they
were based on the expectation in them of spiritual excellence:
"One thing only she demanded of all her friends--that they should
have some 'extraordinary generous seeking;' that they should not be
satisfied with the common routine of life--that they should aspire
to something higher, better, holier, than they had now attained.
Where this element of aspiration existed, she demanded no
originality of intellect, no greatness of soul. If these were
found, well; but she could love, tenderly and truly, where they
were not.
"She never formed a friendship until she had seen and known this
germ of good, and afterwards judged conduct by this. To this germ
of good, to this highest law of each individual, she held them
true.
"Some of her friends were young, gay, and beautiful; some old,
sick, or studious; some were children of the world, others pale
scholars; some were witty, others slightly dull; but all, in order
to be Margaret's friends, must be capable of seeking
something--capable of some aspiration for the better. And how did
she glorify life to all! All that was tame and common vanishing
away in the picturesque light thrown over the most familiar things
by her rapid fancy, her brilliant wit, her sharp insight, her
creative imagination, by the inexhaustible resources of her
knowledge, and the copious rhetoric, which found words and images
always apt and always ready."