Letter XLII.

From: Love-Letters of Margaret Fuller, 1845-1846
Published: 1903 New York

Saturday, July 26th.

  Mr. Bancroft attended to my request at once and accompanied the inclosed with a most cordial note expressive of his pleasure in doing so. As I told him what had been done previously and that it was said a private letter would be sufficient, he sends such an one, and though it is addressed only to persons connected with the navy, I suppose it will prove sufficient, as such consuls or officers will give you other letters if you need them. I could, no doubt, procure good letters to the Consul at Rome, and one from a cousin of his, my intimate friend, to Mr. Langdon, a distinguished merchant at Smyrna, to whom many Americans go, if you need anything further. You will answer fully on this score, whether this is enough and whether you want more, will you not, dear friend?

  Every sweet will have its sour, and the same post which brought me a bit of paper that may be of use to thee, brought also the news that my poor Georgiana had lost the brother whom she adopted and brought to this country. The poor boy died alone among strangers. He had kept at work to the last moment he was able to sit up, indeed much too long, yet his sickness, funeral, etc., leaves a debt to his sister which embittered his last thoughts. She says “I cannot sleep at night for thinking how he must have longed—oh more than that—to see me; of his working, when so miserable, from sense of necessity.” I try to drive away such thoughts and believe that he is now in good society, where he is bound by no fetters but those his own spirit imposes; “but how shall I tell mother! I could wish to lie down and die too.” Oh, my friend, how often that wish must come to all of us, yet it would be useless; we must pay our ransom out of our own earnings either in this world or the next, and the Beethovens the heaviest.

  I have been thinking of you to-day more than ever; I have been entirely alone, all the others gone to Coney Island, and no sound except the murmur of the summer-wind to invade the deep, sweet stillness. All day it was sweet, yet towards nightfall it grew oppressively sad. I longed to be summoned by your voice, catch animation from your eye. Yet to-day my thoughts have been concentrated on our relation as never before. It seems to me not only peculiar but original. I have never had one at all like it, and I do not read things, in the Poets or anywhere, that more than glance at it; they do not touch that which is especially its life. Your thoughts are growing in my mind, the influence of your stronger organization has at times almost transfused mine, and has effected some permanent changes there; there have been moments when our minds were blended in one, yet what I mean is the inner fact, the kernel, of whose existence these are only the tokens. It has never made me so deeply sensible of its presence as to-day, beating like a heart within me, a heart that seems strong enough to cast aside this weed of flesh and clothe itself anew. If others enjoy the same, they nowhere speak of it. And is it not by living such relations that we bring a new religion, establishing nobler freedom for all? For that which takes place in us, must, by spiritual law, widen its circles, till it embraces all. But I talk to thee of what thou knowest better than I, yet indeed I feel-when known to me, it will be angelic knowledge. Farewell, Du Beder, take me to thyself in that deep sincerity which is prayer, and God’s will be done!

Sunday evening.

  As I lie thinking, I begin to be troubled, lest the inclosed should not suffice for what you want, as one from the President or Secretary of State would. It is, of course, credentials as to who you are, but you may not always wish to make use of it, when you want such. In this case, let me name persons, from whom I could get letters that might supply the want—Mr. Glidden, not known to me, but much indebted to some of my friends. Dr. Howe, well known to me and to Greece. Mr. Edward Everett, who will soon be on his return and who, though he has left office, might have the desirable connections abroad. He has shown me much kindness and would, I doubt not, still do so. If any of these can be of use, name it to your sister, who is best entitled of any here, to act for you, since you say you love her best, and she is most anxious you should have the full profit of your travel and not be exposed to interruption and useless annoyance.

  Even if you wrote to me that you wanted anything, and circumstances should then have so changed that I could not with perfect delicacy and propriety apply, I would not, because I know you would not in such case be willing to have me. So do not again scruple to speak, for I do not know the case clearly enough to divine.

  A letter from Mr. Bancroft seems more appropriate to use with professional or literary objects in travel than one either from the President or Mr. Buchanan. I left it at his own discretion what to do, and suppose he did what was easiest, but it will, I think, be sufficient.

  I am sorry that I have scrawled so all over the thick letter which accompanies this. I fear it will hardly be legible to you and will try not to do so any more, but one thing came to hand thick after the other, till I had regularly covered almost every inch.

  I have shown the utmost senselessness in writing this envelope; forgive if it costs you pence additional to put another. I forgot what I was about and have not time to copy. Imagine you economized enough by my omission to write the 15th to pay for the additional envelope. I never did anything so clumsy before. I draw my pen through the above, for how silly it seems to jest at such a distance; even in this flat, heartless way, it is too uncongenial.

  Next week I hear from you, and shall then know whether I am to write again. Already I begin to feel like it.

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