Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli, Vol. II | Page 3

be her
guardian-angel, to shield her from contact with the unworthy, to rouse
each generous impulse, to invigorate thought by truth incarnate in
beauty, and with unfelt ministry to weave bright threads in her web of
fate. Thus more and more Margaret became an object of respectful
interest, in whose honor, magnanimity and strength I learned implicitly
to trust.
Separation, however, hindered our growing acquaintance, as we both
left Cambridge, and, with the exception of a few chance meetings in
Boston and a ramble or two 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 bloomed.

II.
A CLUE.
* * * * *
I have no hope of conveying to readers my sense of the beauty of our
relation, as it lies in the past with brightness falling on it from
Margaret's risen spirit. It would be like printing a chapter of
autobiography, to describe what is so grateful in memory, its influence
upon one's self. And much of her inner life, as confidentially disclosed,

could not be represented without betraying a sacred trust. All that can
be done is to open the outer courts, and give a clue for loving hearts to
follow. To such these few sentences may serve as a guide.
'When I feel, as I do this morning, the poem of existence, I am repaid
for all trial. The bitterness of wounded affection, the disgust at
unworthy care, the aching sense of how far deeds are transcended by
our lowest aspirations, pass away as I lean on the bosom of Nature, and
inhale new life from her breath. Could but love, like knowledge, be its
own reward!'
'Oftentimes I have found in those of my own sex more gentleness,
grace, and purity, than in myself; but seldom the heroism which I feel
within my own breast. I blame not those who think the heart cannot
bleed because it is so strong; but little they dream of what lies
concealed beneath the determined courage. Yet mine has been the
Spartan sternness, smiling while it hides the wound. I long rather for
the Christian spirit, which even on the cross prays, "Father, forgive
them," and rises above fortitude to heavenly satisfaction.'
* * * * *
'Remember that only through aspirations, which sometimes make me
what is called unreasonable, have I been enabled to vanquish
unpropitious circumstances, and save my soul alive.'
* * * * *
'All the good I have ever done has been by calling on every nature for
its highest. I will admit that sometimes I have been wanting in
gentleness, but never in tenderness, nor in noble faith.'
* * * * *
'The heart which hopes and dares is also accessible to terror, and this
falls upon it like a thunderbolt. It can never defend itself at the moment,
it is so surprised. There is no defence but to strive for an equable
temper of courageous submission, of obedient energy, that shall make
assault less easy to the foe.
'This is the dart within the heart, as well as I can tell it:--At moments,
the music of the universe, which daily I am upheld by hearing, seems to
stop. I fall like a bird when the sun is eclipsed, not looking for such
darkness. The sense of my individual law--that lamp of life--flickers. I
am repelled in what is most natural to me. I feel as, when a suffering
child, I would go and lie with my face to the ground, to sob away my

little life.'
* * * * *
'In early years, when, though so frank as to the thoughts of the mind, I
put no heart confidence in any human being, my refuge was in my
journal. I have burned those records of my youth, with its bitter tears,
and struggles, and aspirations. Those aspirations were high, and have
gained only broader foundations and wider reach. But the leaves had
done their work. For years to write there, instead of speaking, had
enabled me to soothe myself; and the Spirit was often my friend, when
I sought no other. Once again I am willing to take up the cross of
loneliness. Resolves are idle, but the anguish of my soul has been, deep.
It will not be easy to profane life by rhetoric.'
* * * * *
'I woke thinking of the monks of La Trappe;--how could they bear their
silence? When the game of life was lost for me, in youthful anguish I
knew well the desire for that vow; but if I had taken it, my heart would
have burned out my physical existence long ago.'
* * *