full tribute has been paid to the splendid intellect, to the scholarship that was so masculine and thorough, the culture so broad and deep, this woman with all her regal gifts was as truly womanly as any pretty creature who never entertained a single idea.
If intense, vivid affections belong to woman they were Margaret's; in capacity for suffering through these she was more than rich enough; the peculiar experiences of her sex were known to her; in "woman's devotion" she was not wanting; of feminine caprices, whimseys, and moods, she had her share.
It makes one indignant to see how persistently this greatest American woman is misconceived. Beyond a circle of enthusiasts and a handful of literary people to whom her fame belongs, who knows Margaret Fuller? Who has any adequate knowledge of her character?
Once upon a time it was graduation-day at a young ladies' seminary, and a respectable clerical gentleman stood up before these fair young girls in white, to give them some good advice. If he could have found the right word to say I think there were young hearts there that would have welcomed it joyfully. I wonder that the sight of those bright faces did not inspire him. I wonder, immeasurably, that he dared to air his empty theories and vapid opinions in that presence. His theme was, of course, "Woman's Sphere," and the refrain, continuously repeated, and illustrated, and pathetically insisted upon was—
"Don't, girls, don't, for pity's sake, be like Margaret Fuller!"
Now I am sure they were all nice girls; I don't doubt that there was latent talent, possibly genius among them; certainly there was abundant variety of character with all its grand possibilities; but of Margaret Fuller's, I trow not one.
Of first-class men and women preëminent in a special realm, one or two are enough for a generation. There was small danger that any of those neophytes would emulate her rich life. But this was not the lecturer's meaning. What it was is obvious enough.
Of the real Margaret Fuller he could have known nothing. What he disliked and deprecated was a creation of his own morbid prejudice, a being bearing no resemblance to the real woman; a being whose affectional nature had been dwarfed by an unnatural development of the intellect, an embodiment of strong-mindedness, of value only to point a moral or serve as a horrid example.
All this is a mistake without excuse.
Surely some baleful star shone over Margaret's cradle. "I have known," she writes, "some happy hours, but they all lead to sorrow; and not only the cups of wine but of milk seemed drugged for me."
It is hard that the innocent use of her great powers—as natural to her as song to a bird—should have been made the occasion of charges against her. But a woman's laurel wreath too often hurts like a crown of thorns. A vivid intellectual life sharpens the sensibilities and opens a thousand avenues to pain which are closed to duller natures. A little genius goes very far toward making one miserable. The upward way is always rough. It is far easier to linger with the crowd in the smooth safe paths.
But one cannot disown one's heritage; and Margaret was born in the purple.
It would be a curious study to trace the influences which' went to form her singularly composite character. The fire and passion of the southern races burned in her soul. But the rigidity and coldness of the conditions in which she lived spread a decorous frosting over the slumbering frame.
It is certain that she suffered cruelly from forced growth. She read Latin at
