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!’
