But I will not play Mentor too much, lest I make you averse to write to your very affectionate sister,

M.

TO HER BROTHER, R.

I entirely agree in what you say of _tuition_ and _intuition;_ the two must act and react upon one another, to make a man, to form a mind. Drudgery is as necessary, to call out the treasures of the mind, as harrowing and planting those of the earth.

And besides, the growths of literature and art are as much nature as the trees in Concord woods; but nature idealized and perfected.

TO THE SAME.

1841.

I take great pleasure in that feeling of the living presence of beauty in nature which your letters show. But you, who have now lived long enough to see some of my prophecies fulfilled, will not deny, though you may not yet believe the truth of my words when I say you go to an extreme in your denunciations of cities and the social inst.i.tutions.

_These_ are a growth also, and, as well as the diseases which come upon them, under the control of the one spirit as much as the great tree on which the insects prey, and in whose bark the busy bird has made many a wound.

When we get the proper perspective of these things we shall find man, however artificial, still a part of nature. Meanwhile, let us trust; and while it is the soul's duty ever to bear witness to the best it knows, let us not be hasty to conclude that in what suits us not there can be no good. Let us be sure there _must_ be eventual good, could we but see far enough to discern it. In maintaining perfect truth to ourselves and choosing that mode of being which suits us, we had best leave others alone as much as may be. You prefer the country, and I doubt not it is on the whole a better condition of life to live there; but at the country party you have mentioned you saw that no circ.u.mstances will keep people from being frivolous. One may be gossipping, and vulgar, and idle in the country,--earnest, n.o.ble and wise, in the city. Nature cannot be kept from us while there is a sky above, with so much as one star to remind us of prayer in the silent night.

As I walked home this evening at sunset, over the Mill-Dam, towards the city, I saw very distinctly that the city also is a bed in G.o.d's garden. More of this some other time.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

_Concord, May _2, 1887.

MY DEAR: I am pa.s.sing happy here, except that I am not well,--so unwell that I fear I must go home and ask my good mother to let me rest and vegetate beneath her sunny kindness for a while. The excitement of conversation prevents my sleeping. The drive here with Mr. E------ was delightful. Dear Nature and Time, so often calumniated, will take excellent care of us if we will let them. The wisdom lies in schooling the heart not to expect too much. I did that good thing when I came here, and I am rich. On Sunday I drove to Watertown with the author of "Nature." The trees were still bare, but the little birds care not for that; they revel, and carol, and wildly tell their hopes, while the gentle, "voluble" south wind plays with the dry leaves, and the pine-trees sigh with their soul-like sounds for June. It was beauteous; and care and routine fled away, and I was as if they had never been, except that I vaguely whispered to myself that all had been well with me.

The baby here is beautiful. He looks like his father, and smiles so sweetly on all hearty, good people. I play with him a good deal, and he comes so _natural,_ after Dante and other poets.

Ever faithfully your friend.

TO THE SAME.

1887.

MY BELOVED CHILD: I was very glad to get your note. Do not think you must only write to your friends when you can tell them you are happy; they will not misunderstand you in the dark hour, nor think you _forsaken_, if cast down. Though your letter of Wednesday was very sweet to me, yet I knew it could not last as it was then. These hours of heavenly, heroic strength leave us, but they come again: their memory is with us amid after-trials, and gives us a foretaste of that era when the steadfast soul shall be the only reality.

My dearest, you must suffer, but you will always be growing stronger, and with every trial n.o.bly met, you will feel a growing a.s.surance that n.o.bleness is not a mere _sentiment_ with you. I sympathize deeply in your anxiety about your mother; yet I cannot but remember the bootless fear and agitation about my mother, and how strangely our destinies were guided. Take refuge in prayer when you are most troubled; the door of the sanctuary will never be shut against you. I send you a paper which is very sacred to me. Bless Heaven that your heart is awakened to sacred duties before any kind of gentle ministering has become impossible, before any relation has been broken. [Footnote: It has always been my desire to find appropriate time and place to correct an erroneous impression which has gained currency in regard to my father, and which does injustice to his memory. That impression is that he was exceedingly stern and exacting in the parental relation, and especially in regard to my sister; that he forbid or frowned upon her sports;--excluded her from intercourse with other children when she, a child, needed such companionship, and required her to bend almost unceasingly over her books. This impression has, certainly in part, arisen from an autobiographical sketch, never written for publication nor intended for a literal or complete statement of her father's educational method, or the relation which existed between them, which was most loving and true on both sides. While the narrative is true, it is not the all she would have said, and, therefore, taken alone, conveys an impression which misleads those who did not know our father well. Perhaps no better opportunity or place than this may ever arise to correct this impression so for us it is wrong. It is true that my father had a very high standard of scholarship, and did expect conformity to it in his children. He was not stern toward them.

It is doubtless true, also, that he did not perfectly comprehend the rare mind of his daughter, or see for some years that she required no stimulating to intellectual effort, as do most children, but rather the reverse. But how many fathers are there who would have understood at once such a child as Margaret Fuller was, or would have done even as wisely as he? And how long is it since a wiser era has dawned upon the world (its light not yet fully welcomed), in which attention first to physical development to the exclusion of the mental, is an axiom in education! Was it so deemed forty years ago? Nor has it been considered that so gifted a child would naturally, as she did, _seek_ the companionship of those older than herself, and not of children who had little in unison with her. She needed, doubtless, to be _urged_ into the usual sports of children, and the company of those of her own age; if _not_ urged to enter these she was never excluded from either. She needed to be kept from books for a period, or to be led to those of a lighter cost than such as she read, and which usually task the thoughts of mature men. This simply was not done, and the error arose from no lack of tenderness, or consideration, from no lack of the wisdom of those times, but from the simple fact that the laws of physiology as connected with those of mind were not understood then as now, nor was attention so much directed to physical culture as of the primary importance it is now regarded. Our father was indeed exact and strict with himself and others; but none has ever been more devoted to his children than he, or more painstaking with their education, nor more fondly loved them; and in later life they have ever been more and more impressed with the conviction of his fidelity and wisdom. That Margaret venerated her father, and that his love was returned, is abundantly evidenced in her poem which accompanies this letter. This, too, was not written for the public eye, but it is too n.o.ble a tribute, too honorable both to father and daughter, to be suppressed. I trust that none, pa.s.sing from one extreme to the other, will infer from the natural self-reproach and upbraiding because of short-comings, felt by every true mind when an honored and loved parent departs, that she lacked fidelity in the relation of daughter. She agreed not always with his views and methods, but this diversity of mind never affected their mutual respect and love.--[Ed.]]

LINES WRITTEN IN MARCH, 1836.

"I will not leave you comfortless."

O, Friend divine! this promise dear Falls sweetly on the weary ear!

Often, in hours of sickening pain, It soothes me to thy rest again.

Might I a true disciple be, Following thy footsteps faithfully, Then should I still the succor prove Of him who gave his life for love.

When this fond heart would vainly beat For bliss that ne'er on earth we meet, For perfect sympathy of soul, From those such heavy laws control;

When, roused from pa.s.sion's ecstasy, I see the dreams that filled it fly, Amid my bitter tears and sighs Those gentle words before me rise.

With aching brows and feverish brain The founts of intellect I drain, And con with over-anxious thought What poets sung and heroes wrought.

Enchanted with their deeds and lays, I with like gems would deck my days; No fires creative in me burn, And, humbled, I to Thee return;

When blackest clouds around me rolled Of scepticism drear and cold, When love, and hope, and joy and pride, Forsook a spirit deeply tried;

My reason wavered in that hour, Prayer, too impatient, lost its power; From thy benignity a ray, I caught, and found the perfect day.

A head revered in dust was laid; For the first time I watched my dead; The widow's sobs were checked in vain, And childhood's tears poured down like rain.

In awe I gaze on that dear face, In sorrow, years gone by retrace, When, nearest duties most forgot, I might have blessed, and did it not!

Ignorant, his wisdom I reproved, Heedless, pa.s.sed by what most he loved, Knew not a life like his to prize, Of ceaseless toil and sacrifice.

No tears can now that hushed heart move, No cares display a daughter's love, The fair occasion lost, no more Can thoughts more just to thee restore.

What can I do? And how atone For all I've done, and left undone?

Tearful I search the parting words Which the beloved John records.

"Not comfortless!" I dry my eyes, My duties clear before me rise,-- Before thou think'st of taste or pride, See home-affections satisfied!

Be not with generous _thoughts_ content, But on well-doing constant bent; When self seems dear, self-seeking fair; Remember this sad hour in prayer!

Though all thou wishest fly thy touch, Much can one do who loveth much.

More of thy spirit, Jesus give, Not comfortless, though sad, to live.

And yet not sad, if I can know To copy Him who here below Sought but to do his Father's will, Though from such sweet composure still

My heart be far. Wilt thou not aid One whose best hopes on thee are stayed?

Breathe into me thy perfect love, And guide me to thy rest above!

TO HER BROTHER, R----.