Margaret Fuller Ossoli - At Home And Abroad

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The story of the Recluse of Niagara interested me a little. It is
wonderful that men do not oftener attach their lives to localities
of great beauty,--that, when once deeply penetrated, they will let
themselves so easily be borne away by the general stream of things,
to live anywhere and anyhow. But there is something ludicrous in being
the hermit of a show-place, unlike St. Francis in his mountain-bed,
where none but the stars and rising sun ever saw him.

There is also a "guide to the falls," who wears his title labelled on
his hat; otherwise, indeed, one might as soon think of asking for a
gentleman usher to point out the moon. Yet why should we wonder at
such, when we have Commentaries on Shakespeare, and Harmonies of the
Gospels?

And now you have the little all I have to write. Can it interest you?
To one who has enjoyed the full life of any scene, of any hour, what
thoughts can be recorded about it seem like the commas and semicolons
in the paragraph,--mere stops. Yet I suppose it is not so to the
absent. At least, I have read things written about Niagara, music, and
the like, that interested _me_. Once I was moved by Mr. Greenwood's
remark, that he could not realize this marvel till, opening his eyes
the next morning after he had seen it, his doubt as to the possibility
of its being still there taught him what he had experienced. I
remember this now with pleasure, though, or because, it is exactly the
opposite to what I myself felt. For all greatness affects different
minds, each in "its own particular kind," and the variations of
testimony mark the truth of feeling.[A]

[Footnote A: "Somewhat avails, in one regard, the mere sight of beauty
without the union of feeling therewith. Carried away in memory, it
hangs there in the lonely hall as a picture, and may some time do its
message. I trust it may be so in my case, for I _saw_ every object far
more clearly than if I had been moved and filled with the presence,
and my recollections are equally distinct and vivid." Extracted from
Manuscript Notes of this Journey left by Margaret Fuller.--ED.]

I will here add a brief narrative of the experience of another, as
being much better than anything I could write, because more simple and
individual.

"Now that I have left this 'Earth-wonder,' and the emotions it
excited are past, it seems not so much like profanation to analyze
my feelings, to recall minutely and accurately the effect of this
manifestation of the Eternal. But one should go to such a scene
prepared to yield entirely to its influences, to forget one's little
self and one's little mind. To see a miserable worm creep to the brink
of this falling world of waters, and watch the trembling of its
own petty bosom, and fancy that this is made alone to act upon him
excites--derision? No,--pity."

As I rode up to the neighborhood of the falls, a solemn awe
imperceptibly stole over me, and the deep sound of the ever-hurrying
rapids prepared my mind for the lofty emotions to be experienced. When
I reached the hotel, I felt a strange indifference about seeing the
aspiration of my life's hopes. I lounged about the rooms, read the
stage-bills upon the walls, looked over the register, and, finding the
name of an acquaintance, sent to see if he was still there. What this
hesitation arose from, I know not; perhaps it was a feeling of my
unworthiness to enter this temple which nature has erected to its God.

At last, slowly and thoughtfully I walked down to the bridge leading
to Goat Island, and when I stood upon this frail support, and saw
a quarter of a mile of tumbling, rushing rapids, and heard their
everlasting roar, my emotions overpowered me, a choking sensation rose
to my throat, a thrill rushed through my veins, "my blood ran rippling
to my fingers' ends." This was the climax of the effect which the
falls produced upon me,--neither the American nor the British fall
moved me as did these rapids. For the magnificence, the sublimity of
the latter, I was prepared by descriptions and by paintings. When I
arrived in sight of them I merely felt, "Ah, yes! here is the fall,
just as I have seen it in a picture." When I arrived at the Terrapin
Bridge, I expected to be overwhelmed, to retire trembling from this
giddy eminence, and gaze with unlimited wonder and awe upon the
immense mass rolling on and on; but, somehow or other, I thought only
of comparing the effect on my mind with what I had read and heard.
I looked for a short time, and then, with almost a feeling of
disappointment, turned to go to the other points of view, to see if I
was not mistaken in not feeling any surpassing emotion at this sight.
But from the foot of Biddle's Stairs, and the middle of the river, and
from below the Table Rock, it was still "barren, barren all."

Provoked with my stupidity in feeling most moved in the wrong place,
I turned away to the hotel, determined to set off for Buffalo that
afternoon. But the stage did not go, and, after nightfall, as there
was a splendid moon, I went down to the bridge, and leaned over the
parapet, where the boiling rapids came down in their might. It was
grand, and it was also gorgeous; the yellow rays of the moon made
the broken waves appear like auburn tresses twining around the black
rocks. But they did not inspire me as before. I felt a foreboding of a
mightier emotion to rise up and swallow all others, and I passed on to
the Terrapin Bridge. Everything was changed, the misty apparition had
taken off its many-colored crown which it had worn by day, and a bow
of silvery white spanned its summit. The moonlight gave a poetical
indefiniteness to the distant parts of the waters, and while the
rapids were glancing in her beams, the river below the falls was black
as night, save where the reflection of the sky gave it the appearance
of a shield of blued steel. No gaping tourists loitered, eyeing with
their glasses, or sketching on cards the hoary locks of the ancient
river-god. All tended to harmonize with the natural grandeur of the
scene. I gazed long. I saw how here mutability and unchangeableness
were united. I surveyed the conspiring waters rushing against the
rocky ledge to overthrow it at one mad plunge, till, like toppling
ambition, o'er-leaping themselves, they fall on t' other side,
expanding into foam ere they reach the deep channel where they creep
submissively away.

Then arose in my breast a genuine admiration, and a humble adoration
of the Being who was the architect of this and of all. Happy were the
first discoverers of Niagara, those who could come unawares upon this
view and upon that, whose feelings were entirely their own. With what
gusto does Father Hennepin describe "this great downfall of water,"
"this vast and prodigious cadence of water, which falls down after a
surprising and astonishing manner, insomuch that the universe does not
afford its parallel. 'Tis true Italy and Swedeland boast of some such
things, but we may well say that they be sorry patterns when compared
with this of which we do now speak."

CHAPTER II.

THE LAKES.--CHICAGO.--GENEVA.--A THUNDER-STORM.--PAPAW GROVE.

SCENE, STEAMBOAT.--_About to leave Buffalo.--Baggage coming on
board.--Passengers bustling for their berths.--Little boys persecuting
everybody with their newspapers and pamphlets.--J., S., and M. huddled
up in a forlorn corner, behind a large trunk.--A heavy rain falling._

_M._ Water, water everywhere. After Niagara one would like a dry strip
of existence. And at any rate it is quite enough for me to have it
under foot without having it overhead in this way.

_J._ Ah, do not abuse the gentle element. It is hardly possible to
have too much of it, and indeed, if I were obliged to choose amid the
four, it would be the one in which I could bear confinement best.

_S._ You would make a pretty Undine, to be sure!

_J._ Nay. I only offered myself as a Triton, a boisterous Triton of
the sounding shell. You, M., I suppose, would be a salamander, rather.

_M._ No! that is too equivocal a position, whether in modern
mythology, or Hoffman's tales. I should choose to be a gnome.

_J._ That choice savors of the pride that apes humility.

_M._ By no means; the gnomes are the most important of all the
elemental tribes. Is it not they who make the money?

_J._ And are accordingly a dark, mean, scoffing ----

_M._ You talk as if you had always lived in that wild, unprofitable
element you are so fond of, where all things glitter, and nothing is
gold; all show and no substance. My people work in the secret, and
their works praise them in the open light; they remain in the dark
because only there such marvels could be bred. You call them mean.
They do not spend their energies on their own growth, or their own
play, but to feed the veins of Mother Earth with permanent splendors,
very different from what she shows on the surface.

Think of passing a life, not merely in heaping together, but _making_
gold. Of all dreams, that of the alchemist is the most poetical, for
he looked at the finest symbol. "Gold," says one of our friends, "is
the hidden light of the earth, it crowns the mineral, as wine the
vegetable order, being the last expression of vital energy."

_J._ Have you paid for your passage?

_J._ Yes! and in gold, not in shells or pebbles.

_J._ No really wise gnome would scoff at the water, the beautiful
water. "The spirit of man is like the water."

_S._ And like the air and fire, no less.

_J._ Yes, but not like the earth, this low-minded creature's chosen,
dwelling.

_M._ The earth is spirit made fruitful,--life. And its heartbeats are
told in gold and wine.

_J._ Oh! it is shocking to hear such sentiments in these times. I
thought that Bacchic energy of yours was long since repressed.

_M._ No! I have only learned to mix water with my wine, and stamp upon
my gold the heads of kings, or the hieroglyphics of worship. But since
I have learnt to mix with water, let's hear what you have to say in
praise of your favorite.

_J._ From water Venus was born, what more would you have? It is the
mother of Beauty, the girdle of earth, and the marriage of nations.

_S._ Without any of that high-flown poetry, it is enough, I think,
that it is the great artist, turning all objects that approach it to
picture.

_J._ True, no object that touches it, whether it be the cart that
ploughs the wave for sea-weed, or the boat or plank that rides upon
it, but is brought at once from the demesne of coarse utilities into
that of picture. All trades, all callings, become picturesque by the
water's side, or on the water. The soil, the slovenliness, is washed
out of every calling by its touch. All river-crafts, sea-crafts, are
picturesque, are poetical. Their very slang is poetry.

_M._ The reasons for that are complex.

_J._ The reason is, that there can be no plodding, groping words and
motions on my water as there are on your earth. There is no time,
no chance for them where all moves so rapidly, though so smoothly;
everything connected with water must be like itself, forcible, but
clear. That is why sea-slang is so poetical; there is a word for
everything and every act, and a thing and an act for every word.
Seamen must speak quick and bold, but also with utmost precision.
They cannot reef and brace other than in a Homeric dialect,--
therefore--(Steamboat bell rings.) But I must say a quick good-by.

_M._ What, going, going back to earth after all this talk upon the
other side. Well, that is nowise Homeric, but truly modern.

J. is borne off without time for any reply, but a laugh--at himself,
of course.

S. and M. retire to their state-rooms to forget the wet, the chill,
and steamboat smell, in their just-bought new world of novels.

Next day, when we stopped at Cleveland, the storm was just clearing
up; ascending the bluff, we had one of the finest views of the lake
that could have been wished. The varying depths of these lakes give to
their surface a great variety of coloring, and beneath this wild sky
and changeful light, the waters presented a kaleidoscopic variety
of hues, rich, but mournful. I admire these bluffs of red, crumbling
earth. Here land and water meet under very different auspices from
those of the rock-bound coast to which I have been accustomed. There
they meet tenderly to challenge, and proudly to refuse, though, not in
fact repel. But here they meet to mingle, are always rushing together,
and changing places; a new creation takes place beneath the eye.

The weather grew gradually clearer, but not bright; yet we could see
the shore and appreciate the extent of these noble waters.

Coming up the river St. Clair, we saw Indians for the first time.
They were camped out on the bank. It was twilight, and their blanketed
forms, in listless groups or stealing along the bank, with a lounge
and a stride so different in its wildness from the rudeness of the
white settler, gave me the first feeling that I really approached the
West.

The people on the boat were almost all New-Englanders, seeking their
fortunes. They had brought with them their habits of calculation,
their cautious manners, their love of polemics. It grieved me to hear
these immigrants, who were to be the fathers of a new race, all, from
the old man down to the little girl, talking, not of what they should
do, but of what they should get in the new scene. It was to them a
prospect, not of the unfolding nobler energies, but of more ease and
larger accumulation. It wearied me, too, to hear Trinity and Unity
discussed in the poor, narrow, doctrinal way on these free waters; but
that will soon cease; there is not time for this clash of opinions in
the West, where the clash of material interests is so noisy. They will
need the spirit of religion more than ever to guide them, but will
find less time than before for its doctrine. This change was to me,
who am tired of the war of words on these subjects, and believe it
only sows the wind to reap the whirlwind, refreshing, but I argue
nothing from it; there is nothing real in the freedom of thought at
the West,--it is from the position of men's lives, not the state
of their minds. So soon as they have time, unless they grow better
meanwhile, they will cavil and criticise, and judge other men by their
own standard, and outrage the law of love every way, just as they do
with us.

We reached Mackinaw the evening of the third day, but, to my great
disappointment, it was too late and too rainy to go ashore. The beauty
of the island, though seen under the most unfavorable circumstances,
did not disappoint my expectations.[A] But I shall see it to more
purpose on my return.

[Footnote A: "Mackinaw, that long desired, sight, was dimly discerned
under a thick fog, yet it soothed and cheered me. All looked mellow
there; man seemed to have worked in harmony with Nature instead of
rudely invading her, as in most Western towns. It seemed possible, on
that spot, to lead a life of serenity and cheerfulness. Some richly
dressed Indians came down to show themselves. Their dresses were of
blue broadcloth, with splendid leggings and knee-ties. On their heads
were crimson scarfs adorned with beads and falling on one shoulder,
their hair long and looking cleanly. Near were one or two wild figures
clad in the common white blankets." Manuscript Notes.--ED.]

As the day has passed dully, a cold rain preventing us from keeping
out in the air, my thoughts have been dwelling on a story told when we
were off Detroit, this morning, by a fellow-passenger, and whose moral
beauty touched me profoundly.

"Some years ago," said Mrs. L., "my father and mother stopped to
dine at Detroit. A short time before dinner my father met in the hall
Captain P., a friend of his youthful days. He had loved P. extremely,
as did many who knew him, and had not been surprised to hear of the
distinction and popular esteem which his wide knowledge, talents, and
noble temper commanded, as he went onward in the world. P. was every
way fitted to succeed; his aims were high, but not too high for his
powers, suggested by an instinct of his own capacities, not by an
ideal standard drawn from culture. Though steadfast in his course, it
was not to overrun others; his wise self-possession was no less for
them than himself. He was thoroughly the gentleman, gentle because
manly, and was a striking instance that, where there is strength
for sincere courtesy, there is no need of other adaptation to the
character of others, to make one's way freely and gracefully through
the crowd.

"My father was delighted to see him, and after a short parley in the
hall, 'We will dine together,' he cried, 'then we shall have time to
tell all our stories.'

"P. hesitated a moment, then said, 'My wife is with me.'

"'And mine with me,' said my father; 'that's well; they, too, will
have an opportunity of getting acquainted, and can entertain one
another, if they get tired of our college stories.'

"P. acquiesced, with a grave bow, and shortly after they all met in
the dining-room. My father was much surprised at the appearance of
Mrs. P. He had heard that his friend married abroad, but nothing
further, and he was not prepared to see the calm, dignified P. with
a woman on his arm, still handsome, indeed, but whose coarse and
imperious expression showed as low habits of mind as her exaggerated
dress and gesture did of education. Nor could there be a greater
contrast to my mother, who, though understanding her claims and place
with the certainty of a lady, was soft and retiring in an uncommon
degree.

"However, there was no time to wonder or fancy; they sat down, and
P. engaged in conversation, without much vivacity, but with his usual
ease. The first quarter of an hour passed well enough. But soon it was
observable that Mrs. P. was drinking glass after glass of wine, to an
extent few gentlemen did, even then, and soon that she was actually
excited by it. Before this, her manner had been brusque, if not
contemptuous, towards her new acquaintance; now it became, towards
my mother especially, quite rude. Presently she took up some slight
remark made by my mother, which, though, it did not naturally mean
anything of the sort, could be twisted into some reflection upon
England, and made it a handle, first of vulgar sarcasm, and then, upon
my mother's defending herself with some surprise and gentle dignity,
hurled upon her a volley of abuse, beyond Billingsgate.

"My mother, confounded by scenes and ideas presented to her mind
equally new and painful, sat trembling; she knew not what to do; tears
rushed into her eyes. My father, no less distressed, yet unwilling
to outrage the feelings of his friend by doing or saying what his
indignation prompted, turned an appealing look on P.

"Never, as he often said, was the painful expression of that sight
effaced from his mind. It haunted his dreams and disturbed his waking
thoughts. P. sat with his head bent forward, and his eyes cast down,
pale, but calm, with a fixed expression, not merely of patient woe,
but of patient shame, which it would not have been thought possible
for that noble countenance to wear. 'Yet,' said my father, 'it became
him. At other times he was handsome, but then beautiful, though of a
beauty saddened and abashed. For a spiritual light borrowed from the
worldly perfection of his mien that illustration by contrast, which
the penitence of the Magdalen does from the glowing earthliness of her
charms.'

"Seeing that he preserved silence, while Mrs. P. grew still more
exasperated, my father rose and led his wife to her own room. Half
an hour had passed, in painful and wondering surmises, when a gentle
knock was heard at the door, and P. entered equipped for a journey.
'We are just going,' he said, and holding out his hand, but without
looking at them, 'Forgive.'

"They each took his hand, and silently pressed it; then he went
without a word more.

"Some time passed, and they heard now and then of P., as he passed
from one army station to another, with his uncongenial companion,
who became, it was said, constantly more degraded. Whoever mentioned
having seen them wondered at the chance which had yoked him to such
a woman, but yet more at the silent fortitude with which he bore it.
Many blamed him for enduring it, apparently without efforts to check
her; others answered that he had probably made such at an earlier
period, and, finding them unavailing, had resigned himself to despair,
and was too delicate to meet the scandal that, with such resistance as
such a woman could offer, must attend a formal separation.

"But my father, who was not in such haste to come to conclusions, and
substitute some plausible explanation for the truth, found something
in the look of P. at that trying moment to which, none of these
explanations offered a key. There was in it, he felt, a fortitude,
but not the fortitude of the hero; a religious submission, above the
penitent, if not enkindled with the enthusiasm, of the martyr.

"I have said that my father was not one of those who are ready to
substitute specious explanations for truth, and those who are thus
abstinent rarely lay their hand, on a thread without making it a clew.
Such a man, like the dexterous weaver, lets not one color go till Ire
finds that which matches it in the pattern,--he keeps on weaving, but
chooses his shades; and my father found at last what he wanted to make
out the pattern for himself. He met a lady who had been intimate
with both himself and P. in early days, and, finding she had seen the
latter abroad, asked if she knew the circumstances of the marriage.

"'The circumstances of the act which sealed the misery of our friend,
I know,' she said, 'though as much in the dark as any one about the
motives that led to it.

"'We were quite intimate with P. in London, and he was our most
delightful companion. He was then in the full flower of the varied
accomplishments which set off his fine manners and dignified
character, joined, towards those he loved, with a certain soft
willingness which gives the desirable chivalry to a man. None was more
clear of choice where his personal affections were not touched,
but where they were, it cost him pain to say no, on the slightest
occasion. I have thought this must have had some connection with the
mystery of his misfortunes.

"'One day he called on me, and, without any preface, asked if I
would be present next day at his marriage. I was so surprised, and so
unpleasantly surprised, that I did not at first answer a word. We had
been on terms so familiar, that I thought I knew all about him, yet
had never dreamed of his having an attachment; and, though I had never
inquired on the subject, yet this reserve where perfect openness had
been supposed, and really, on my side, existed, seemed to me a kind of
treachery. Then it is never pleasant to know that a heart on which we
have some claim is to be given to another. We cannot tell how it will
affect our own relations with a person; it may strengthen or it may
swallow up other affections; the crisis is hazardous, and our first
thought, on such an occasion, is too often for ourselves,--at least
mine was. Seeing me silent, he repeated his question. "To whom," said
I, "are you to be married?" "That," he replied, "I cannot tell you."
He was a moment silent, then continued, with an impassive look of cold
self-possession, that affected me with strange sadness: "The name of
the person you will hear, of course, at the time, but more I cannot
tell you. I need, however, the presence, not only of legal, but of
respectable and friendly witnesses. I have hoped you and your husband
would, do me this kindness. Will you?" Something in his manner made it
impossible to refuse. I answered, before I knew I was going to speak,
"We will," and he left me.

"'I will not weary you with telling how I harassed myself and my
husband, who was, however, scarce less interested, with doubts and
conjectures. Suffice it that, next morning, P. came and took us in a
carriage to a distant church. We had just entered the porch, when a
cart, such as fruit and vegetables are brought to market in, drove
up, containing an elderly woman and a young girl. P. assisted them to
alight, and advanced with the girl to the altar.

"'The girl was neatly dressed and quite handsome, yet something in her
expression displeased me the moment I looked upon her. Meanwhile,
the ceremony was going on, and, at its close, P. introduced us to the
bride, and we all went to the door. "Good by, Fanny," said the elderly
woman. The new-made Mrs. P. replied without any token of affection or
emotion. The woman got into the cart and drove away.

"'From that time I saw but little of P. or his wife. I took our mutual
friends to see her, and they were civil to her for his sake. Curiosity
was very much excited, but entirely baffled; no one, of course, dared
speak to P. on the subject, and no other means could be found of
solving the riddle.

"'He treated his wife with grave and kind politeness, but it was
always obvious that they had nothing in common between them. Her
manners and tastes were not at that time gross, but her character
showed itself hard and material. She was fond of riding, and spent
much time so. Her style in this, and in dress, seemed the opposite of
P.'s; but he indulged all her wishes, while, for himself, he plunged
into his own pursuits.

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