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7th (search for this): chapter 8
e should tell the thoughts of several minds, one gesture proclaim that the same life is at the same moment in many breasts. I am myself most happy in my lonely Sundays, and do not feel the need of any social worship, as I have not for several years, which I have passed in the same way. Sunday is to me priceless as a day of peace and solitary reflection. To all who will, it may be true. that, as Herbert says:— Sundays the pillars are On which Heaven's palace arched lies; The other days fill up the space And hollow room with vanities; and yet in no wise vanities, when filtered by the Sunday crucible. After much troubling of the waters of my life, a hestra, 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 sweetnes
June (search for this): chapter 8
flowers! I liked to hear him, for he recorded all their pretty ways,—not like a botanist, but a lover. His interview with the Magnolia of Lake Pontchartrain was most romantic. And what he said of the Yuca seems to me so pretty, that I will write it down, though somewhat more concisely than he told it:— I had kept these plants of the Yuca Filamentosa six or seven years, though they had never bloomed. I knew nothing of them, and had no notion of what feelings they would excite. Last June I found in bud the one which had the most favorable exposure. A week or two after, another, which was more in the shade, put out flower-buds, and I thought I should be able to watch them, one after the other; but, no! the one which was most favored waited for the other, and both flowered together at the full of the moon. This struck me as very singular, but as soon as I saw the flower by moonlight I understood it. This flower is made for the moon, as the Heliotrope is for the sun, and refu
September (search for this): chapter 8
, the ode to Autumn, and— Sigh on, sad heart, for love's eclipse? It was a beautiful time when I first read these poems. I was staying in Hallowell, Maine, and could find no books that I liked, except Hood's poems. You know how the town is built, like a terraced garden on the river's bank; I used to go every afternoon to the granite quarry which crowns these terraces, and read till the sunset came casting its last glory on the opposite bank. They were such afternoons as those in September and October, clear, soft, and radiant. Nature held nothing back. 'T is many years since, and I have never again seen the Kennebec, but remember it as a stream of noble character. It was the first river I ever sailed up, realizing all which that emblem discloses of life. Greater still would the charm have been to sail downward along an unknown stream, seeking not a home, but a ship upon the ocean. Newbury, Oct. 18, 1840.—It rained, and the day was pale and sorrowful, the thick-falle
October (search for this): chapter 8
Autumn, and— Sigh on, sad heart, for love's eclipse? It was a beautiful time when I first read these poems. I was staying in Hallowell, Maine, and could find no books that I liked, except Hood's poems. You know how the town is built, like a terraced garden on the river's bank; I used to go every afternoon to the granite quarry which crowns these terraces, and read till the sunset came casting its last glory on the opposite bank. They were such afternoons as those in September and October, clear, soft, and radiant. Nature held nothing back. 'T is many years since, and I have never again seen the Kennebec, but remember it as a stream of noble character. It was the first river I ever sailed up, realizing all which that emblem discloses of life. Greater still would the charm have been to sail downward along an unknown stream, seeking not a home, but a ship upon the ocean. Newbury, Oct. 18, 1840.—It rained, and the day was pale and sorrowful, the thick-fallen leaves even
October 10th (search for this): chapter 8
e three brothers. I could not die while there was yet life in my brother's breast. I would return from the shades and nerve him with twofold life for the fight. I could do it, for our hearts beat with one blood. Do you not see the truth and happiness of this waiting tenderness? The verse— Have I a lover Who is noble and free, I would he were nobler Than to love me,— does not come home to my heart, though this does: I could not love thee, sweet, so much, Loved I not honor more. October 10th, 1840.—I felt singular pleasure in seeing you quote Hood's lines on Melancholy. I thought nobody knew and loved his serious poems except myself, and two or three others, to whom I imparted them. This was some years before their reprint in this country, it should be noticed. Do you like, also, the ode to Autumn, and— Sigh on, sad heart, for love's eclipse? It was a beautiful time when I first read these poems. I was staying in Hallowell, Maine, and could find no books that I
October 19th (search for this): chapter 8
simple procedure, I would far rather be the miller, hoping to attract by natural affinity some congenial baker, und so weiter. However, one thing seems sure, that many persons will soon, somehow, somewhere, throw off a part, at least, of these terrible weights of the social contract, and see if they cannot lie more at ease in the lap of Nature. I do not feel the same interest in these plans, as if I had a firmer hold on life, but I listen with much pleasure to the good suggestions. Oct. 19th, 1840.—was here. Generally I go out of the room when he comes, for his great excitability makes me nervous, and his fondness for detail is wearisome. But to-night I was too much fatigued to do anything else, and did not like to leave mother; so I lay on the sofa while she talked with him. My mind often wandered, yet ever and anon, as I listened again to him, I was struck with admiration at the compensations of Nature. Here is a man, isolated from his kind beyond any I know, of an amb
October 25th (search for this): chapter 8
ions, that she will not flower till the full moon, and chooses to hide her beauty from the eye of day. Might not this be made into a true poem, if written out merely as history of the plant, and no observer introduced? How finely it harmonizes with all legends of Isis, Diana, &c.! It is what I tried to say in the sonnet,— Woman's heaven, Where palest lights a silvery sheen diffuse. In tracing these correspondences, one really does take hold of a Truth, of a Divine Thought. October 25th, 1840.—This week I have not read any book, nor once walked in the woods and fields. I meant to give its days to setting outward things in order, and its evenings to writing. But, I know not how it is, I can never simplify my life; always so many ties, so many claims! However. soon the winter winds will chant matins and vespers, which may make my house a cell, and in a snowy veil enfold me for my prayer. If I cannot dedicate myself this time, I will not expect it again. Surely it shou
December 8th (search for this): chapter 8
do not suffer overmuch to have me suffer. It is best for me to serve where I can better bear to fall short. I could visit——more nobly than in daily life, through the soul of our souls. When she named me her Priestess, that name made me perfectly happy. Long has been my consecration; may I not meet those I hold dear at the altar? How would I pile up the votive offerings, and crowd the fires with incense! Life might be full and fair; for, in my own way, I could live for my friends. Dec. 8th, 1840.—My book of amusement has been the Evenings of St. Petersburg. I do not find the praises bestowed on it at all exaggerated. Yet De Maistre is too logical for me. I only catch a thought here and there along the page. There is a grandeur even in the subtlety of his mind. He walks with a step so still, that, but for his dignity, it would be stealthy, yet with brow erect and wide, eye grave and deep. He is a man such as I have never known before. I went to see Mrs. Wood in the So<
1830 AD (search for this): chapter 8
et, 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
1839 AD (search for this): chapter 8
I. First impressions. 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 ofo 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 bloomneither too timid, and fearful of a wound or cloud. Iii. Transcendentalism. the summer of 1839 saw the full dawn of the Transcendental movement in New England. The rise of this enthusiasm was I offended. V. The Dial. Several talks among the Transcendentalists, during the autumn of 1839, turned upon the propriety of establishing an organ for the expression of freer views than the coather seek to put it in its place, as servant and minister to the soul. Vi. The woman. in 1839 I had met Margaret upon the plane of intellect. In the summer of 1840, on my return from the Wes
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