Affectionately always, &c.

* * * * *

TO MISS R.

Chicago, August 4, 1848.

I HAVE hoped from time to time, dear ——, that I should receive a few lines from you, apprizing me how you are this summer, but a letter from Mrs. F—— lately comes to tell me that you are not better, but, at least when at Saratoga, worse.

So writing is of course fatiguing, and I must not expect letters any more. To that I could make up my mind if I could hear that you were well again. I fear, if your malady disturbs you as much as it did, it must wear on your strength very much, and it seems in itself dangerous. However, it is good to think that your composure is such that disease can only do its legitimate work, and not undermine two ways,—the body with its pains, and the body through the mind with thoughts and fears of pains.

I should have written to you long ago except that I find little to communicate this summer, and little inclination to communicate that little; so what letters I have sent, have been chiefly to beg some from my friends. I have had home-sickness sometimes here, as do children for the home where they are even little indulged, in the boarding-school where they are only tolerated. This has been in the town, where I have felt the want of companionship, because the dissipation of fatigue, or expecting soon to move again, has prevented my employing myself for myself; and yet there was nothing well worth looking at without. When in the country I have enjoyed myself highly, and my health has improved day by day. The characters of persons are brought out by the little wants and adventures of country life as you see it in this region; so that each one awakens a healthy interest; and the same persons who, if I saw them at these hotels, would not have a word to say that could fix the attention, become most pleasing companions; their topics are before them, and they take the hint. You feel so grateful, too, for the hospitality of the log-cabin; such gratitude as the hospitality of the rich, however generous, cannot inspire; for these wait on you with their domestics and money, and give of their superfluity only; but here the Master gives you his bed, his horse, his lamp, his grain from the field, his all, in short; and you see that he enjoys doing so thoroughly, and takes no thought for the morrow; so that you seem in fields full of lilies perfumed with pure kindness; and feel, verily, that Solomon in all his glory could not have entertained you so much to the purpose. Travelling, too, through the wide green woods and prairies, gives a feeling both of luxury and repose that the sight of highly-cultivated country never can. There seems to be room enough for labor to pause and man to fold his arms and gaze, forgetting poverty, and care, and the thousand walls and fences that in the cultivated region must be built and daily repaired both for mind and body. Nature seems to have poured forth her riches so without calculation, merely to mark the fulness of her joy; to swell in larger strains the hymn, "the one Spirit doeth all things veil, for its life is love."

I will not ask you to write to me now, as I shall so soon be at home. Probably, too, I shall reserve a visit to B—— for another summer; I have been so much a rover that when once on the road I shall wish to hasten home.

Ever yours, M.

* * * * *

TO THE SAME.

Cambridge, January 21, 1644.

MY DEAR ———: I am anxious to get a letter, telling me how you fare this winter in the cottage. Your neighbors who come this way do not give very favorable accounts of your looks; and, if you are well enough, I should like to see a few of those firm, well-shaped characters from your own hand. Is there no chance of your coming to Boston all this winter? I had hoped to see you for a few hours at least.

I wrote you one letter while at the West; I know not if it was ever received; it was sent by a private opportunity, one of those "traps to catch the unwary," as they have been called. It was no great loss, if lost. I did not feel like writing letters while travelling. It took all my strength of mind to keep moving and to receive so many new impressions. Surely I never had so clear an idea before of the capacity to bless, of mere Earth, when fresh from the original breath of the creative spirit. To have this impression, one must see large tracts of wild country, where the traces of man's inventions are too few and slight to break the harmony of the first design. It will not be so, long, even where I have been now; in three or four years those vast flowery plains will be broken up for tillage,—those shapely groves converted into logs and boards. I wished I could have kept on now, for two or three years, while yet the first spell rested on the scene. I feel much refreshed, even by this brief intimacy with Nature in an aspect of large and unbroken lineaments.

I came home with a treasure of bright pictures and suggestions, and seemingly well. But my strength, which had been sustained by a free, careless life in the open air, has yielded to the chills of winter, and a very little work, with an ease that is not encouraging. However, I have had the influenza, and that has been about as bad as fever to everybody. Now I am pretty well, but much writing does not agree with me.

* * * I wish you were near enough for me to go in and see you now and then. I know that, sick or well, you are always serene, and sufficient to yourself; but now you are so much shut up, it might animate existence agreeably to hear some things I might have to tell. * * *

* * * * *

TO THE SAME.

* * * 1844.

Just as I was beginning to visit the institutions here, of a remedial and benevolent kind, I was stopped by influenza. So soon as I am quite well I shall resume the survey. I do not expect to do much, practically, for the suffering, but having such an organ of expression as the Tribune, any suggestions that are well grounded may be of use. I have always felt great interest for those women who are trampled in the mud to gratify the brute appetites of men, and I wished I might be brought, naturally, into contact with them. Now I am so, and I think I shall have much that is interesting to tell you when we meet.

I go on very moderately, for my strength is not great; but I am now connected with a person who is anxious I should not overtask it. I hope to do more for the paper by-and-by. At present, besides the time I spend in looking round and examining my new field, I am publishing a volume, of which you will receive a copy, called "Woman in the Nineteenth Century." A part of my available time is spent in attending to it as it goes through the press; for, really, the work seems but half done when your book is written. I like being here; the streams of life flow free, and I learn much. I feel so far satisfied as to have laid my plans to stay a year and a half, if not longer, and to have told Mr. G—— that I probably shall do so. That is long enough for a mortal to look forward, and not too long, as I must look forward in order to get what I want from Europe.

Mr. Greeley is a man of genuine excellence, honorable, benevolent, of an uncorrupted disposition, and of great, abilities. In modes of life and manners he is the man of the people, and of the American people. * * *

I rejoice to hear that your situation is improved. I hope to pass a day or two with you next summer, if you can receive me when I can come. I want to hear from you now and then, if it be only a line to let me know the state of your health. Love to Miss G——, and tell her I have the cologne-bottle on my mantle-piece now. I sent home for all the little gifts I had from friends, that my room might look more homelike. My window commands a most beautiful view, for we are quite out of the town, in a lovely place on the East River. I like this, as I can be in town when I will, and here have much retirement. You were right in supposing my signature is the star.

Ever affectionately yours.

* * * * *

TO HER BROTHER, R.

Fishkill-Landing, Nov 28, 1844.

DEAR R.:

* * * * *

The seven weeks of proposed abode here draw to a close, and have brought what is rarest,—fruition, of the sort proposed from them. I have been here all the time, except that three weeks since I went down to New York, and with —— visited the prison at Sing-Sing. On Saturday we went up to Sing-Sing in a little way-boat, thus seeing that side of the river to much greater advantage than we can in the mammoth boats. We arrived in resplendent moonlight, by which we might have supposed the prisons palaces, if we had not known too well what was within.

On Sunday —— addressed the male convicts in a strain of most noble and pathetic eloquence. They listened with earnest attention; many were moved to tears,—some, I doubt not, to a better life. I never felt such sympathy with an audience;—as I looked over that sea of faces marked with the traces of every ill, I felt that at least heavenly truth would not be kept out by self-complacency and a dependence on good appearances.

I talked with a circle of women, and they showed the natural aptitude of the sex for refinement. These women—some black, and all from the lowest haunts of vice—showed a sensibility and a sense of propriety which would not have disgraced any place.

Returning, we had a fine storm on the river, clearing up with strong winds.

* * * * *

TO HER BROTHER, A. B. F.

Rome, Jan. 20, 1849.

My Dear A.: Your letter and mother's gave me the first account of your illness. Some letters were lost during the summer, I do not know how. It did seem very hard upon you to have that illness just after your settlement; but it is to be hoped we shall some time know a good reason for all that seems so strange. I trust you are now becoming fortified in your health, and if this could only be, feel as if things would go well with you in this difficult world. I trust you are on the threshold of an honorable and sometimes happy career. From many pains, many dark hours, let none of the progeny of Eve hope to escape! * * * *

Meantime, I hope to find you in your home, and make you a good visit there. Your invitation is sweet in its tone, and rouses a vision of summer woods and New England Sunday-morning bells.

It seems to me that mother is at last truly in her sphere, living with one of her children. Watch over her carefully, and don't let her do too much. Her spirit is only all too willing,—but the flesh is weak, and her life so precious to us all! * * * *

* * * * *

TO MAZZINI.

"Al Cittadino Reppresentante del Popolo Romano."

Rome, March 8, 1849.

Dear Mazzini: Though knowing you occupied by the most important affairs, I again feel impelled to write a few lines. What emboldens me is the persuasion that the best friends, in point of sympathy and intelligence,—the only friends of a man of ideas and of marked character,—must be women. You have your mother; no doubt you have others, perhaps many. Of that I know nothing; only I like to offer also my tribute of affection.

When I think that only two years ago you thought of coming into Italy with us in disguise, it seems very glorious that you are about to enter republican Rome as a Roman citizen. It seems almost the most sublime and poetical fact of history. Yet, even in the first thrill of joy, I felt "he will think his work but beginning, now."

When I read from your hand these words, "II lungo esilio teste ricominciato, la vita non confortata, fuorche d'affetti lontani e contesi, e la speranza lungamente protrata, e il desiderio che comincia a farmi si supremo, di dormire finalmente in pace, da che non ho potuto, vivere in terra mia,"—when I read these words they made me weep bitterly, and I thought of them always with a great pang at the heart. But it is not so, dear Mazzini,—you do not return to sleep under the sod of Italy, but to see your thought springing up all over the soil. The gardeners seem to me, in point of instinctive wisdom or deep thought, mostly incompetent to the care of the garden; but on idea like this will be able to make use of any implements. The necessity, it is to be hoped, will educate the men, by making them work. It is not this, I believe, which still keeps your heart so melancholy; for I seem to read the same melancholy in your answer to the Roman assembly, You speak of "few and late years," but some full ones still remain. A century is not needed, nor should the same man, in the same form of thought, work too long on an age. He would mould and bind it too much to himself. Better for him to die and return incarnated to give the same truth on yet another side. Jesus of Nazareth died young; but had he not spoken and acted as much truth as the world could bear in his time? A frailty, a perpetual short-coming, motion in a curve-line, seems the destiny of this earth.

The excuse awaits us elsewhere; there must be one,—for it is true, as said Goethe, "care is taken that the tree grow not up into the heavens." Men like you, appointed ministers, must not be less earnest in their work; yet to the greatest, the day, the moment is all their kingdom, God takes care of the increase.

Farewell! For your sake I could wish at this moment to be an Italian and a man of action; but though I am an American, I am not even a woman of action; so the best I can do is to pray with the whole heart, "Heaven bless dear Mazzini!—cheer his heart, and give him worthy helpers to carry out his holy purposes."

* * * * *

TO MR. AND MRS. SPRING.

Florence, Dec. 12, 1840.

DEAR M. AND R.: * * * Your letter, dear R, was written in your noblest and most womanly spirit. I thank you warmly for your sympathy about my little boy. What he is to me, even you can hardly dream; you that have three, in whom the natural thirst of the heart was earlier satisfied, can scarcely know what my one ewe-lamb is to me. That he may live, that I may find bread for him, that I may not spoil him by overweening love, that I may grow daily better for his sake, are the ever-recurring thoughts,—say prayers,—that give their hue to all the current of my life.

But, in answer to what you say, that it is still better to give the world a living soul than a portion of my life in a printed book, it is true; and yet, of my book I could know whether it would be of some worth or not; of my child, I must wait to see what his worth will be. I play with him, my ever-growing mystery! but from the solemnity of the thoughts he brings is refuge only in God. Was I worthy to be parent of a soul, with its eternal, immense capacity for weal and woe? "God be merciful to me a sinner!" comes so naturally to a mother's heart!

* * * * *

What you say about the Peace way is deeply true; if any one see clearly how to work in that way, let him, in God's name! Only, if he abstain from fighting against giant wrongs, let him be sure he is really and ardently at work undermining them, or, better still, sustaining the rights that are to supplant them. Meanwhile, I am not sure that I can keep my hands free from blood. Cobden is good; but if he had stood in Kossuth's place, would he not have drawn his sword against the Austrian? You, could you let a Croat insult your wife, carry off your son to be an Austrian serf, and leave your daughter bleeding in the dust? Yet it is true that while Moses slew the Egyptian, Christ stood still to be spit upon; and it is true that death to man could do him no harm. You have the truth, you have the right, but could you act up to it in all circumstances? Stifled under the Roman priesthood, would you not have thrown it off with all your force? Would you have waited unknown centuries, hoping for the moment when you could see another method?

Yet the agonies of that baptism of blood I feel, O how deeply! in the golden June days of Rome. Consistent no way, I felt I should have shrunk back,—I could not have had it shed. Christ did not have to see his dear ones pass the dark river; he could go alone, however, in prophetic spirit. No doubt he foresaw the crusades.

In answer to what you say of ——, I wish the little effort I made for him had been wiselier applied. Yet these are not the things one regrets. It does not do to calculate too closely with the affectionate human impulse. We must be content to make many mistakes, or we should move too slowly to help our brothers much.

* * * * *

TO HER BROTHER, R.

Florence, Jan. 8, 1850.

My Dear R.: * * * * The way in which you speak of my marriage is such as I expected from you. Now that we have once exchanged words on these important changes in our lives, it matters little to write letters, so much has happened, and the changes are too great to be made clear in writing. It would not be worth while to keep the family thinking of me. I cannot fix precisely the period of my return, though at present it seems to me probable we may make the voyage in May or June. At first we should wish to go and make a little visit to mother. I should take counsel with various friends before fixing myself in any place; see what openings there are for me, &c. I cannot judge at all before I am personally in the United States, and wish to engage myself no way. Should I finally decide on the neighborhood of New York, I should see you all, often. I wish, however, to live with mother, if possible. We will discuss it on all sides when I come. Climate is one thing I must think of. The change from the Roman winter to that of New England might be very trying for Ossoli. In New York he would see Italians often, hear his native tongue, and feel less exiled. If we had our affairs in New York and lived in the neighboring country, we could find places as quiet as C———, more beautiful, and from which access to a city would be as easy by means of steam.

On the other hand, my family and most cherished friends are in New England. I shall weigh all advantages at the time, and choose as may then seem best.

I feel also the great responsibility about a child, and the mixture of solemn feeling with the joy its sweet ways and caresses give; yet this is only different in degree, not in kind, from what we should feel in other relations. We may more or less impede or brighten the destiny of all with whom we come in contact. Much as the child lies in our power, still God and Nature are there, furnishing a thousand masters to correct our erroneous, and fill up our imperfect, teachings. I feel impelled to try for good, for the sake of my child, most powerfully; but if I fail, I trust help will be tendered to him from some other quarter. I do not wish to trouble myself more than is inevitable, or lose the simple, innocent pleasure of watching his growth from day to day, by thinking of his future. At present my care of him is to keep him pure, in body and mind, to give for body and mind simple nutriment when he requires it, and to play with him. Now he learns, playing, as we all shall when we enter a higher existence. With him my intercourse thus far has been precious, and if I do not well for him, he at least has taught me a great deal.

I may say of Ossoli, it would be difficult to help liking him, so sweet is his disposition, so disinterested without effort, so simply wise his daily conduct, so harmonious his whole nature. And he is a perfectly unconscious character, and never dreams that he does well. He is studying English, but makes little progress. For a good while you may not be able to talk freely with him, but you will like showing him your favorite haunts,—he is so happy in nature, so sweet in tranquil places.

* * * * *

TO ———.

What a difference it makes to come home to a child! How it fills up all the gaps of life just in the way that is most consoling, most refreshing! Formerly I used to feel sad at that hour; the day had not been nobly spent,—I had not done my duty to myself or others, and I felt so lonely! Now I never feel lonely; for, even if my little boy dies, our souls will remain eternally united. And I feel infinite hope for him,—hope that he will serve God and man more loyally than I have done; and seeing how full he is of life, how much he can afford to throw away, I feel the inexhaustibleness of nature, and console myself for my own incapacities.

Madame Arconati is near me. We have had some hours of great content together, but in the last weeks her only child has been dangerously ill. I have no other acquaintance except in the American circle, and should not care to make any unless singularly desirable; for I want all my time for the care of my child, for my walks, and visits to objects of art, in which again I can find pleasure, end in the evening for study and writing. Ossoli is forming some taste for books; he is also studying English; he learns of Horace Sumner, to whom he teaches Italian in turn.

* * * * *

TO MR. AND MRS. S.

Florence, Feb. 6, 1850.

My Dear M. and R.: You have no doubt ere this received a letter written, I think, in December, but I must suddenly write again to thank you for the New Year's letter. It was a sweet impulse that led you all to write together, and had its full reward in the pleasure you gave! I have said as little as possible about Ossoli and our relation, wishing my old friends to form their own impressions naturally, when they see us together. I have faith that all who ever knew me will feel that I have become somewhat milder, kinder, and more worthy to serve all who need, for my new relations. I have expected that those who have cared for me chiefly for my activity of intellect, would not care for him; but that those in whom the moral nature predominates would gradually learn to love and admire him, and see what a treasure his affection must be to me. But even that would be only gradually; for it is by acts, not by words, that one so simple, true, delicate and retiring, can be known. For me, while some of my friends have thought me exacting, I may say Ossoli has always outgone my expectations in the disinterestedness, the uncompromising bounty, of his every act.

He was the same to his father as to me. His affections are few, but profound, and thoroughly acted out. His permanent affections are few, but his heart is always open to the humble, suffering, heavy-laden. His mind has little habitual action, except in a simple, natural poetry, that one not very intimate with him would never know anything about. But once opened to a great impulse, as it was to the hope of freeing his country, it rises to the height of the occasion, and stays there. His enthusiasm is quiet, but unsleeping. He is very unlike most Italians, but very unlike most Americans, too. I do not expect all who cared for me to care for him, nor is it of importance to him that they should. He is wholly without vanity. He is too truly the gentleman not to be respected by all persons of refinement. For the rest, if my life is free, and not too much troubled, if he can enjoy his domestic affections, and fulfil his duties in his own way, he will be content. Can we find this much for ourselves in bustling America the next three or four years? I know not, but think we shall come and try. I wish much to see you all, and exchange the kiss of peace. There will, I trust, be peace within, if not without. I thank you most warmly for your gift. Be assured it will turn to great profit. I have learned to be a great adept in economy, by looking at my little boy. I cannot bear to spend a cent for fear he may come to want. I understand now how the family-men get so mean, and shall have to begin soon to pray against that danger. My little Nino, as we call him for house and pet name, is in perfect health. I wash, and dress, and sew for him; and think I see a great deal of promise in his little ways, and shall know him better for doing all for him, though it is fatiguing and inconvenient at times. He is very gay and laughing, sometimes violent,—for he is come to the age when he wants everything in his own hands,—but, on the whole, sweet as yet, and very fond of me. He often calls me to kiss him. He says, "kiss," in preference to the Italian word bacio. I do not cherish sanguine visions about him, but try to do my best by him, and enjoy the present moment.

It was a nice account you gave of Miss Bremer. She found some "neighbors" as good as her own. You say she was much pleased by ——; could she know her, she might enrich the world with a portrait as full of little delicate traits as any in her gallery, and of a higher class than any in which she has been successful. I would give much that a competent person should paint ——. It is a shame she should die and leave the world no copy.

* * * * *

TO MR. CASS, CHARGE D'AFFAIRES DES ETATS UNIS D'AMERIQUE.

Florence, May 2, 1850.

Dear Mr. Cass: I shall most probably leave Florence and Italy the 8th or 10th of this month, and am not willing to depart without saying adieu to yourself. I wanted to write the 30th of April, but a succession of petty interruptions prevented. That was the day I saw you first, and the day the French first assailed Rome. What a crowded day that was! I had been to visit Ossoli in the morning, in the garden of the Vatican. Just after my return you entered. I then went to the hospital, and there passed the eight amid the groans of many suffering and some dying men. What a strange first of May it was, as I walked the streets of Rome by the early sunlight of the nest day! Those were to me grand and impassioned hours. Deep sorrow followed,—many embarrassments, many pains! Let me once more, at parting, thank you for the sympathy you showed me amid many of these. A thousand years might pass, and you would find it unforgotten by me.

I leave Italy with profound regret, and with only a vague hope of returning. I could have lived here always, full of bright visions, and expanding in my faculties, had destiny permitted. May you be happy who remain here! It would be well worth while to be happy in Italy!

I had hoped to enjoy some of the last days, but the weather has been steadily bad since you left Florence. Since the 4th of April we have not had a fine day, and all our little plans for visits to favorite spots and beautiful objects, from which we have long been separated, have been marred!

I sail in the barque Elizabeth for New York. She is laden with marble and rags—a very appropriate companionship for wares of Italy! She carries Powers' statue of Calhoun. Adieu! Remember that we look to you to keep up the dignity of our country. Many important occasions are now likely to offer for the American (I wish I could write the Columbian) man to advocate,—more, to represent the cause of Truth and Freedom in the face of their foes. Remember me as their lover, and your friend, M. O.

* * * * *

To ———.

Florence, April 16, 1860.

* * * There is a bark at Leghorn, highly spoken of, which sails at the end of this month, and we shall very likely take that. I find it imperatively necessary to go to the United States to make arrangements that may free me from care. Shall I be more fortunate if I go in person? I do not know. I am ill adapted to push my claims and pretensions; but, at least, it will not be such slow work as passing from disappointment to disappointment here, where I wait upon the post-office, and must wait two or three months, to know the fate of any proposition.

I go home prepared to expect all that is painful and difficult. It will be a consolation to see my dear mother; and my dear brother E., whom I have not seen for ten years, is coming to New England this summer. On that account I wish to go this year.

* * * * *

May 10.—My head is full of boxes, bundles, phials of medicine, and pots of jelly. I never thought much about a journey for myself, except to try and return all the things, books especially, which I had been borrowing; but about my child I feel anxious lest I should not take what is necessary for his health and comfort on so long a voyage, where omissions are irreparable. The unpropitious, rainy weather delays us now from day to day, as our ship; the Elizabeth,—(look out for news of shipwreck!) cannot finish taking in her cargo till come one or two good days.

I leave Italy with most sad and unsatisfied heart,—hoping, indeed, to return, but fearing that may not be permitted in my "cross-biased" life, till strength of feeling and keenness of perception be less than during these bygone rich, if troubled, years!

I can say least to those whom I prize most. I am so sad and weary, leaving Italy, that I seem paralyzed.

* * * * *

TO THE SAME.

Ship Elizabeth, off Gibraltar, June 8, 1850.

My Dear M——: You will, I trust, long ere receiving this, have read my letter from Florence, enclosing one to my mother, informing her under what circumstances I had drawn on you through ——, and mentioning how I wished the bill to be met in case of any accident to me on my homeward course. That course, as respects weather, has been thus far not unpleasant; but the disaster that has befallen us is such as I never dreamed of. I had taken passage with Captain Hasty—one who seemed to me one of the best and most high-minded of our American men. He showed the kindest interest in us. His wife, an excellent woman, was with him. I thought, during the voyage, if safe and my child well, to have as much respite from care and pain as sea-sickness would permit. But scarcely was that enemy in some measure quelled, when the captain fell sick. At first his disease presented the appearance of nervous fever. I was with him a great deal; indeed, whenever I could relieve his wife from a ministry softened by great love and the courage of womanly heroism: The last days were truly terrible with disgusts and fatigues; for he died, we suppose,—no physician has been allowed to come on board to see the body,—of confluent small-pox. I have seen, since we parted, great suffering, but nothing physical to be compared to this, where the once fair and expressive mould of man is thus lost in corruption before life has fled. He died yesterday morning, and was buried in deep water, the American Consul's barge towing out one from this ship which bore the body, about six o'clock. It was Sunday. A divinely calm, glowing afternoon had succeeded a morning of bleak, cold wind. You cannot think how beautiful the whole thing was:—the decent array and sad reverence of the sailors; the many ships with their banners flying; the stern pillar of Hercules all bathed in roseate vapor; the little white sails diving into the blue depths with that solemn spoil of the good man, so still, when he had been so agonized and gasping as the last sun stooped. Yes, it was beautiful; but how dear a price we pay for the poems of this world! We shall now be in quarantine a week; no person permitted to come on board until it be seen whether disease break out in other cases. I have no good reason to think it will not; yet I do not feel afraid. Ossoli has had it; so he is safe. The baby is, of course, subject to injury. In the earlier days, before I suspected small-pox, I carried him twice into the sick-room, at the request of the captain, who was becoming fond of him. He laughed and pointed; he did not discern danger, but only thought it odd to see the old friend there in bed. It is vain by prudence to seek to evade the stern assaults of destiny. I submit. Should all end well, we shall be in New York later than I expected; but keep a look-out. Should we arrive safely, I should like to see a friendly face. Commend me to my dear friends; and, with most affectionate wishes that joy and peace may continue to dwell in your house, adieu, and love as you can,

Your friend, MARGARET.

* * * * *

LETTER FROM HON. LEWIS CASS, JR., UNITED STATES CHARGE D'AFFAIRES AT ROME, TO MRS. E. K. CHANNING.

Legation des Etats Unis d'Amerique, Rome, May 10, 1851.

Madame: I beg leave to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the —— ult., and to express my regret that the weak state of my eyesight has prevented me from giving it an earlier reply.

In compliance with your request, I have the honor to state, succinctly, the circumstances connected with my acquaintance with the late Madame Ossoli, your deceased sister, during her residence in Rome.

In the month of April, 1849, Rome, as you are no doubt aware, was placed in a state of siege by the approach of the French army. It was filled at that time with exiles and fugitives who had been contending for years, from Milan in the north to Palermo in the south, for the republican cause; and when the gates were closed, it was computed that there were, of Italians alone, thirteen thousand refugees within the walls of the city, all of whom had been expelled from adjacent states, till Rome became their last rallying-point, and, to many, their final resting-place. Among these was to be seen every variety of age, sentiment, and condition,—striplings and blanched heads; wild, visionary enthusiasts; grave, heroic men, who, in the struggle for freedom, had ventured all, and lost all; nobles and beggars; bandits, felons and brigands. Great excitement naturally existed; and, in the general apprehension which pervaded all classes, that acts of personal violence and outrage would soon be committed, the foreign residents, especially, found themselves placed in an alarming situation.

On the 30th of April the first engagement took place between the French and Roman troops, and in a few days subsequently I visited several of my countrymen, at their request, to concert measures for their safety. Hearing, on that occasion, and for the first time, of Miss Fuller's presence in Rome, and of her solitary mode of life, I ventured to call upon her, and offer my services in any manner that might conduce to her comfort and security. She received me with much kindness, and thus an acquaintance commenced. Her residence on the Piazzi Barberini being considered an insecure abode, she removed to the Casa Dies, which was occupied by several American families.

In the engagements which succeeded between the Roman and French troops, the wounded of the former were brought into the city, and disposed throughout the different hospitals, which were under the superintendence of several ladies of high rank, who had formed themselves into associations, the better to ensure care and attention to those unfortunate men. Miss Fuller took an active part in this noble work; and the greater portion of her time, during the entire siege, was passed in the hospital of the Trinity of the Pilgrims, which was placed under her direction, in attendance upon its inmates.

The weather was intensely hot; her health was feeble and delicate; the dead and dying were around her in every stage of pain and horror; but she never shrank from the duty she had assumed. Her heart and soul were in the cause for which those men had fought, and all was done that Woman could do to comfort them in their sufferings. I have seen the eyes of the dying, as she moved among them, extended on opposite beds, meet in commendation of her universal kindness; and the friends of those who then passed away may derive consolation from the assurance that nothing of tenderness and attention was wanting to soothe their last moments. And I have heard many of those who recovered speak with all the passionate fervor of the Italian nature, of her whose sympathy and compassion, throughout their long illness, fulfilled all the offices of love and affection. Mazzini, the chief of the Triumvirate, who, better than any man in Rome, knew her worth, often expressed to me his admiration of her high character; and the Princess Belgiojoso. to whom was assigned the charge of the Papal Palace, on the Quirinal, which was converted on this occasion into a hospital, was enthusiastic in her praise. And in a letter which I received not long since from this lady, who was gaining the bread of an exile by teaching languages in Constantinople, she alludes with much feeling to the support afforded by Miss Fuller to the republican party in Italy. Here, in Rome, she is still spoken of in terms of regard and endearment, and the announcement of her death was received with a degree of sorrow not often bestowed upon a foreigner, especially one of a different faith.

On the 29th of June, the bombardment from the French camp was very heavy, shells and grenades falling in every part of the city. In the afternoon of the 30th, I received a brief note from Miss Fuller, requesting me to call at her residence. I did so without delay, and found her lying on a sofa, pale and trembling, evidently much exhausted. She informed me that she had sent for me to place in my hand a packet of important papers, which she wished me to keep for the present, and, in the event of her death, to transmit it to her friends in the United States. She then stated that she was married to Marquis Ossoli, who was in command of a battery on the Pincian Hill,—that being the highest and most exposed position in Rome, and directly in the line of bombs from the French camp. It was not to be expected, she said, that he could escape the dangers of another night, such as the last; and therefore it was her intention to remain with him, and share his fate. At the Ave Maria, she added, he would come for her, and they would proceed together to his post. The packet which she placed in my possession, contained, she said, the certificates of her marriage, and of the birth and baptism of her child. After a few words more, I took my departure, the hour she named having nearly arrived. At the porter's lodge I met the Marquis Ossoli, and a few moments afterward I saw them walking toward the Pincian Hill.

Happily, the cannonading was not renewed that night, and at dawn of day she returned to her apartments, with her husband by her side. On that day the French army entered Rome, and, the gates being opened, Madame Ossoli, accompanied by the Marquis, immediately proceeded to Rieti, where she had left her child in the charge of a confidential nurse, formerly in the service of the Ossoli family.

She remained, as you are no doubt aware, some months at Rieti, whence she removed to Florence, where she resided until her ill-fated departure for the United States. During this period I received several letters from her, all of which, though reluctant to part with them, I enclose to your address in compliance with your request.

I am, Madame, very respectfully,

Your obedient servant,

LEWIS CASS, JR.



APPENDIX.



A.

Apparition of the goddess Isis to her votary, from Apulelus.

"Scarcely had I closed my eyes, when, behold (I saw in a dream), a divine form emerging from the middle of the sea, and raising a countenance venerable even to the gods themselves. Afterward, the whole of the most splendid image seemed to stand before me, having gradually shaken off the sea. I will endeavor to explain to you its admirable form, if the poverty of human language will but afford me the power of an appropriate narration; or if the divinity itself, of the most luminous form, will supply me with a liberal abundance of fluent diction. In the first place, then, her most copious and long hairs, being gradually intorted, and promiscuously scattered on her divine neck, were softly defluous. A multiform crown, consisting of various flowers, bound the sublime summit of her head. And in the middle of the crown, just on her forehead, there was a smooth orb, resembling a mirror, or rather a white refulgent light, which indicated that she was the moon. Vipers, rising up after the manner of furrows, environed the crown on the right hand and on the left, and Cerealian ears of corn were also extended from above. Her garment was of many colors, and woven from the finest flax, and was at one time lucid with a white splendor, at another yellow, from the flower of crocus, and at another flaming with a rosy redness. But that which most excessively dazzled my sight, was a very black robe, fulgid with a dark splendor, and which, spreading round and passing under her right side, and ascending to her left shoulder, there rose protuberant, like the centre of a shield, the dependent part of her robe falling in many folds, and having small knots of fringe, gracefully flowing in its extremities. Glittering stars were dispersed through the embroidered border of the robe, and through the whole of its surface, and the full moon, shining in the middle of the stars, breathed forth flaming fires. A crown, wholly consisting of flowers and fruits of every kind, adhered with indivisible connection to the border of conspicuous robe, in all its undulating motions.

"What she carried in her hands also consisted of things of a very different nature. Her right hand bore a brazen rattle, through the narrow lamina of which, bent like a belt, certain rods passing, produced a sharp triple sound through the vibrating motion of her arm. An oblong vessel, in the shape of a boat, depended from her left hand, on the handle of which, in that part which was conspicuous, an asp raised its erect head and largely swelling neck. And shoes, woven from the leaves of the victorious palm-tree, covered her immortal feet. Such, and so great a goddess, breathing the fragrant odor of the shores of Arabia the happy, deigned thus to address me."

The foreign English of the translator, Thomas Taylor, gives this description the air of being itself a part of the mysteries. But its majestic beauty requires no formal initiation to be enjoyed.

* * * * *

B.

I give this in the original, as it does not bear translation. Those who read Italian will judge whether it is not a perfect description of a perfect woman.

LODI E PREGHIERE A MARIA.

Vergine bella che di sol vestita, Coronata di stelle, al sommo Sole Piacesti si, che'n te sua luce ascose; Amor mi spinge a dir di te parole; Ma non so 'ncominciar senza tu' alta, E di Coiul che amando in te si pose.

Invoco lei che ben sempre rispose, Chi la chiamo con fede. Vergine, s'a mercede Miseria extrema dell' smane cose Giammal tivoise, al mio prego t'inohina; Soccorri alla mia guerra; Bench' l' sia terra, e tu del oiel Regina.

Vergine saggia, e del bel numero una Delle beata vergini prudenti; Anzi la prima, e con piu chiara lampa; O saldo scudo dell' afflitte gente Contra colpi di Morte e di Fortuna, Sotto' l' quai si trionfu, non pur scampa: O refrigerio alcieco ardor ch' avvampa Qui fra mortali schiocchi, Vergine, que' begli occhi Che vider tristi la spietata stampa Ne' dolci membri del tuo caro figlio, Volgi ai mio dubbio stato; Che sconsigliato a te vien per consiglio.

Vergine pura, d'ognti parte intera, Del tuo parto gentil figlluola e madre; Che allumi questa vita, e t'altra adorni; Per te il tuo Figlio e quel del sommo Padre, O finestra del ciel lucente altera, Venne a salvarne in su gli estremi giorni, E fra tutt' i terreni altri soggiorni Sola tu fusti eletta, Vergine benedetta; Che 'l pianto d' Eva in allegrezza torni'; Fammi; che puoi; della sua grazia degno, Senza fine o beata, Gla coronata nel superno regno.

Vergine santa d'ogni grazia piena; Che per vera e altissima umiltate. Salisti al ciel, onde miel preghi ascolti; Tu partoristi il fonte di pietate, E di giustizia il Sol, che rasserena Il secol pien d'errori oscuri et tolti; Tre dolci et cari nomi ha' in te raccolti, Madre, Figliuola e Sposa: Vergine gloriosa, Donna del Re che nostri lacci a sciolti E fatto 'l mondo libero et felice, Nelle cui sante piaghe Prego ch'appaghe il cor, vera beatrice.

Vergine sola al mondo senza exempio Che 'l ciel di tue bellezze innamorasti, Cui ne prima fu simil ne seconda, Santi penseri, atti pietosi et casti Al vero Dio sacrato et vivo tempio Fecero in tua verginita feconda. Per te po la mia vita esser ioconda, Sa' tuoi preghi, o Maria, Vergine dolce et pia, Ove 'l fallo abondo, la gratia abonda. Con le ginocchia de la mente inchine, Prego che sia mia scorta, E la mia torta via drizzi a buon fine.

Vergine chiara et stabile in eterno, Di questo tempestoso mare stella, D'ogni fedel nocchier fidata guida, Pon' mente in che terribile procella I' mi ritrovo sol, senza governo, Et o gia da vicin l'ultime strida. Ma pur in te l'anima mia si fida, Peccatrice, i' nol nego, Vergine; ma ti prego Che 'l tuo nemico del mio mal non rida: Ricorditi che fece il peccar nostro Prender Dio, per scamparne, Umana carne al tuo virginal chiostro.

Vergine, quante lagrime ho gia sparte, Quante lusinghe et quanti preghi indarno, Pur per mia pena et per mio grave danno! Da poi ch'i nacqui in su la riva d'Arno; Cercando or questa ed or quell altra parte, Non e stata mia vita altro ch'affanno. Mortal bellezza, atti, o parole m' hanno Tutta ingombrata l'alma, Vergine sacra, ed alma, Non tardar; ch' i' non forse all' ultim 'ann, I di miel piu correnti che saetta, Fra mierie e peccati Sonsen andati, e sol Morte n'aspetta.

Vergine, tale e terra, e posto ha in doglia Lo mio cor; che vivendo in pianto il tenne; E di mille miel mali un non sapea; E per saperlo, pur quel che n'avvenne, Fora avvento: ch' ogni altra sua voglia Era a me morte, ed a lei fama rea Or tu, donna del ciel, tu nostra Dea, Se dir lice, e convicusi; Vergine d'alti sensi, Tu vedi il tutto; e quel che non potea Far oltri, e nulla a e la tua gran virtute; Pon fine al mio dolore; Ch'a te onore ed a mo fia salute.

Vergine, in cui ho tutta mia speranza Che possi e vogli al gran bisogno altarme; Non mi lasciare in su l'estremo passo; Non guardar me, ma chi degno crearme; No'l mio valor, ma l'alta sua sembianza; Che in me ti mova a curar d'uorm si basso. Medusa, e l'error mio lo han fatto un sasso D'umor vano stillante; Vergine, tu di sante Lagrime, e pie adempi 'l mio cor lasso; Ch' almen l'ultlmo pianto sia divoto, Senza terrestro limo; Come fu'l primo non d'insania voto.

Vergine umana, e nemica d'orgoglio, Del comune principio amor t'induca; Miserere d'un cor contrito umile; Che se poca mortal terra caduca Amar con si mirabil fede soglio; Che devro far di te cosa gentile? Se dal mio stato assai misero, e vile Per le tue man resurgo, Vergine; e sacro, e purgo Al tuo nome e pensieri e'ngegno, o stile; La lingua, o'l cor, le lagrime, e i sospiri, Scorgimi al migilor guado; E prendi in grado i cangiati desiri.

Il di s'appressa, e non pote esser lunge; Si corre il tempo, e vola, Vergine unica, e sola; E'l cor' or conscienza, or morte punge. Raccommandami al tuo Figiluol, verace Uomo, e veraco Dio; Ch'accolga i mio spirto ultimo in pace.

As the Scandinavian represented Frigga the Earth, or World-mother, knowing all things, yet never herself revealing them, though ready to be called to counsel by the gods, it represents her in action, decked with jewels and gorgeously attended. But, says the Mythes, when she ascended the throne of Odin, her consort (Heaven), she left with mortals her friend, the Goddess of Sympathy, to protect them in her absence.

Since, Sympathy goes about to do good. Especially she devotes herself to the most valiant and the most oppressed. She consoles the gods in some degree even for the death of their darling Baldur. Among the heavenly powers she has no consort.

* * * * *

C.

THE WEDDING OF THE LADY THERESA.

From Lockhart's Spanish ballads.

'Twas when the fifth Alphonso in Leon held his sway, King Abdulla of Toledo an embassy did send; He asked his sister for a wife, and in an evil day Alphonso sent her, for he feared Abdalla to offend; He feared to move his anger, for many times before He had received in danger much succor from the Moor.

Sad heart had fair Theresa, when she their paction knew; With streaming tears she heard them tell she 'mong the Moors must go; That she, a Christian damsel, a Christian firm and true, Must wed a Moorish husband, it well might cause her woe; But all her tears and all her prayers they are of small avail; At length she for her fate prepares, a victim sad and pale.

The king hath sent his sister to fair Toledo town, Where then the Moor Abdalla his royal state did keep; When she drew near, the Moslem from his golden throne came down, And courteously received her, and bade her cease to weep; With loving words he pressed her to come his bower within; With kisses he caressed her, but still she feared the sin.

"Sir King, Sir King, I pray thee,"—'twas thus Theresa spake,— "I pray thee, have compassion, and do to me no wrong; For sleep with thee I may not, unless the vows I break, Whereby I to the holy church of Christ my lord belong; For thou hast sworn to serve Mahoun, and if this thing should be, The curse of God it must bring down upon thy realm and thee.

"The angel of Christ Jesu, to whom my heavenly Lord Hath given my soul in keeping, is ever by my side; If thou dost me dishonor, he will unsheathe his sword, And smite thy body fiercely, at the crying of thy bride; Invisible he standeth; his sword like fiery flame Will penetrate thy bosom the hour that sees my shame."

The Moslem heard her with a smile; the earnest words she said He took for bashful maiden's wile, and drew her to his bower: In vain Theresa prayed and strove,—she pressed Abdalla's bed, Perforce received his kiss of love, and lost her maiden flower. A woeful woman there she lay, a loving lord beside, And earnestly to God did pray her succor to provide.

The angel of Christ Jesu her sore complaint did hear, And plucked his heavenly weapon from out his sheath unseen: He waved the brand in his right hand, and to the King came near, And drew the point o'er limb and joint, beside the weeping Queen: A mortal weakness from the stroke upon the King did fall; He could not stand when daylight broke, but on his knees must crawl.

Abdalla shuddered inly, when he this sickness felt, And called upon his barons, his pillow to come nigh; "Rise up," he said, "my liegemen," as round his bed they knelt, "And take this Christian lady, else certainly I die; Let gold be in your girdles, and precious stones beside, And swiftly ride to Leon, and render up my bride."

When they were come to Leon Theresa would not go Into her brother's dwelling, where her maiden years were spent; But o'er her downcast visage a white veil she did throw, And to the ancient nunnery of Las Huelgas went. There, long, from worldly eyes retired, a holy life she led; There she, an aged saint, expired; there sleeps she with the dead.

* * * * *

D.

The following extract from Spinoza is worthy of attention, as expressing the view which a man of the largest intellectual scope may take of Woman, if that part of his life to which her influence appeals has been left unawakened. He was a man of the largest intellect, of unsurpassed reasoning powers; yet he makes a statement false to history, for we well know how often men and women have ruled together without difficulty, and one in which very few men even at the present day—I mean men who are thinkers, like him—would acquiesce.

I have put in contrast with it three expressions of the latest literature.

First, from the poems of W. E. Channing, a poem called "Reverence," equally remarkable for the deep wisdom of its thought and the beauty of its utterance, and containing as fine a description of one class of women as exists in literature.

In contrast with this picture of Woman, the happy Goddess of Beauty, the wife, the friend, "the summer queen," I add one by the author of "Festus," of a woman of the muse, the sybil kind, which seems painted from living experience.

And, thirdly, I subjoin Eugene Sue's description of a wicked but able woman of the practical sort, and appeal to all readers whether a species that admits of three such varieties is so easily to be classed away, or kept within prescribed limits, as Spinoza, and those who think like him, believe.



SPINOZA. TRACTATUS POLITICI DE DEMOCRATIA. CAPUT XI.

Perhaps some one will here ask, whether the supremacy of Man over Woman is attributable to nature or custom? Since, if It be human institutions alone to which this fact is owing, there is no reason why we should exclude women from a share in government. Experience most plainly teaches that it is Woman's weakness which places her under the authority of Man. It has nowhere happened that men and women ruled together; but wherever men and women are found, the world over, there we see the men ruling and the women ruled, and in this order of things men and women live together in peace and harmony. The Amazons, it is true, are reputed formerly to have held the reins of government, but they drove men from their dominions; the male of their offspring they invariably destroyed, permitting their daughters alone to live. Now, if women were by nature upon an equality with men, if they equalled men in fortitude, in genius (qualities which give to men might, and consequently right), it surely would be the case, that, among the numerous and diverse nations of the earth, some would be found where both sexes ruled conjointly, and others where the men were ruled by the women, and so educated as to be mentally inferior; and since this state of things nowhere exists, it is perfectly fair to infer that the rights of women are not equal to those of men; but that women must be subordinate, and therefore cannot have an equal, far less a superior place in the government. If, too, we consider the passions of men—how the love men feel towards women is seldom anything but lust and impulse, and much less a reverence for qualities of soul than an admiration of physical beauty; observing, too, the jealousy of lovers, and other things of the same character—we shall see at a glance that it would be, in the highest degree, detrimental to peace and harmony, for men and women to possess on equal share in government.

REVERENCE.

As an ancestral heritage revere All learning, and all thought. The painter's fame Is thine, whate'er thy lot, who honorest grace. And need enough in this low time, when they, Who seek to captivate the fleeting notes Of heaven's sweet beauty, must despair almost, So heavy and obdurate show the hearts Of their companions. Honor kindly then Those who bear up in their so generous arms The beautiful ideas of matchless forms; For were these not portrayed, our human fate,— Which is to be all high, majestical, To grow to goodness with each coming age, Till virtue leap and sing for joy to see So noble, virtuous men,—would brief decay; And the green, festering slime, oblivious, haunt About our common fate. O, honor them!

But what to all true eyes has chiefest charm, And what to every breast where beats a heart Framed to one beautiful emotion,—to One sweet and natural feeling, lends a grace To all the tedious walks of common life, This is fair Woman,—Woman, whose applause Each poet sings,—Woman the beautiful. Not that her fairest brow, or gentlest form, Charm us to tears; not that the smoothest cheek, Wherever rosy tints have made their home, So rivet us on her; but that she is The subtle, delicate grace,—the inward grace, For words too excellent; the noble, true, The majesty of earth; the summer queen; In whose conceptions nothing but what's great Has any right. And, O! her love for him, Who does but his small part in honoring her; Discharging a sweet office, sweeter none, Mother and child, friend, counsel and repose; Naught matches with her, naught has leave with her To highest human praise. Farewell to him Who reverences not with an excess Of faith the beauteous sex; all barren he Shall live a living death of mockery. Ah! had but words the power, what could we say Of Woman! We, rude men of violent phrase, Harsh action, even in repose inwardly harsh; Whose lives walk blustering on high stilts, removed From all the purely gracious influence Of mother earth. To single from the host Of angel forms one only, and to her Devote our deepest heart and deepest mind, Seems almost contradiction. Unto her We owe our greatest blessings, hours of cheer, Gay smiles, and sudden tears, and more than these A sure perpetual love. Regard her as She walks along the vast still earth; and see! Before her flies a laughing troop of joys, And by her side treads old experience, With never-failing voice admonitory; The gentle, though infallible, kind advice, The watchful care, the fine regardfulness, Whatever mates with what we hope to find, All consummate in her—the summer queen.

To call past ages better than what now Man is enacting on life's crowded stage, Cannot improve our worth; and for the world Blue is the sky as ever, and the stars Kindle their crystal flames at soft fallen eve With the same purest lustre that the east Worshipped. The river gently flows through fields Where the broad-leaved corn spreads out, and loads Its ear as when the Indian tilled the soil. The dark green pine,—green in the winter's cold,— Still whispers meaning emblems, as of old; The cricket chirps, and the sweet eager birds In the sad woods crowd their thick melodies; But yet, to common eyes, life's poetry Something has faded, and the cause of this May be that Man, no longer at the shrine Of Woman, kneeling with true reverence, In spite of field, wood, river, stars and sea, Goes most disconsolate. A babble now, A huge and wind-swelled babble, fills the place Of that great adoration which of old Man had for Woman. In these days no more Is love the pith and marrow of Man's fate. Thou who in early years feelest awake To finest impulses from nature's breath, And in thy walk hearest such sounds of truth As on the common ear strike without heed, Beware of men around thee! Men are foul With avarice, ambition and deceit; The worst of all, ambition. This is life, Spent in a feverish chase for selfish ends, Which has no virtue to redeem its toil, But one long, stagnant hope to raise the self. The miser's life to this seems sweet and fair; Better to pile the glittering coin, than seek To overtop our brothers and our loves. Merit in this? Where lies it, though thy name Ring over distant lands, meeting the wind Even on the extremest verge of the wide world? Merit in this? Better be hurled abroad On the vast whirling tide, than, in thyself Concentred, feed upon thy own applause. Thee shall the good man yield no reverence; But, while the Idle, dissolute crowd are loud In voice to send thee flattery, shall rejoice That he has 'scaped thy fatal doom, and known How humble faith in the good soul of things Provides amplest enjoyment. O, my brother If the Past's counsel any honor claim From thee, go read the history of those Who a like path have trod, and see a fate Wretched with fears, changing like leaves at noon, When the new wind sings in the white birch wood. Learn from the simple child the rule of life, And from the movements of the unconscious tribes Of animal nature, those that bend the wing Or cleave the azure tide, content to be, What the great frame provides,—freedom and grace. Thee, simple child, do the swift winds obey, And the white waterfalls with their bold leaps Follow thy movements. Tenderly the light Thee watches, girding with a zone of radiance, And all the swinging herbs love thy soft steps.



DESCRIPTION OF ANGELA, FROM "FESTUS."

I loved her for that she was beautiful, And that to me she seemed to be all nature And all varieties of things in one; Would set at night in clouds of tears, and rise All light and laughter in the morning; fear No petty customs nor appearances, But think what others only dreamed about; And say what others did but think; and do What others would but say; and glory in What others dared but do; it was these which won me; And that she never schooled within her breast One thought or feeling, but gave holiday To all; that she told me all her woes, And wrongs, and ills; and so she made them mine In the communion of love; and we Grew like each other, for we loved each other; She, mild and generous as the sun in spring; And I, like earth, all budding out with love.

* * * * *

The beautiful are never desolate; For some one alway loves them; God or man; If man abandons, God himself takes them; And thus it was. She whom I once loved died; The lightning loathes its cloud; the soul its clay. Can I forget the hand I took in mine, Pale as pale violets; that eye, where mind And matter met alike divine?—ah, no! May God that moment judge me when I do! O! she was fair; her nature once all spring And deadly beauty, like a maiden sword, Startlingly beautiful. I see her now! Wherever thou art thy soul is in my mind; Thy shadow hourly lengthens o'er my brain And peoples all its pictures with thyself; Gone, not forgotten; passed, not lost; thou wilt shine In heaven like a bright spot in the sun! She said she wished to die, and so she died, For, cloudlike, she poured out her love, which was Her life, to freshen this parched heart. It was thus; I said we were to part, but she said nothing; There was no discord; it was music ceased, Life's thrilling, bursting, bounding joy. She sate, Like a house-god, her hands fixed on her knee, And her dark hair lay loose and long behind her, Through which her wild bright eye flashed like a flint; She spake not, moved not, but she looked the more, As if her eye were action, speech, and feeling. I felt it all, and came and knelt beside her, The electric touch solved both our souls together; Then came the feeling which unmakes, undoes; Which tears the sea-like soul up by the roots, And lashes it in scorn against the skies.

* * * * *

It is the saddest and the sorest sight, One's own love weeping. But why call on God? But that the feeling of the boundless bounds All feeling; as the welkin does the world; It is this which ones us with the whole and God. Then first we wept; then closed and clung together; And my heart shook this building of my breast Like a live engine booming up and down; She fell upon me like a snow-wreath thawing. Never were bliss and beauty, love and woe, Ravelled and twined together into madness, As in that one wild hour to which all else The past is but a picture. That alone Is real, and forever there in front.

* * * * *

* * * After that I left her, And only saw her once again alive.

"Mother Saint Perpetua, the superior of the convent, was a tall woman, of about forty years, dressed in dark gray serge, with a long rosary hanging at her girdle. A white mob-cap, with a long black veil, surrounded her thin, wan face with its narrow, hooded border. A great number of deep, transverse wrinkles ploughed her brow, which resembled yellowish ivory in color and substance. Her keen and prominent nose was curved like the hooked beak of a bird of prey; her black eye was piercing and sagacious; her face was at once intelligent, firm, and cold.

"For comprehending and managing the material interests of the society, Mother Saint Perpetua could have vied with the shrewdest and most wily lawyer. When women are possessed of what is called business talent, and when they apply thereto the sharpness of perception, the indefatigable perseverance, the prudent dissimulation, and, above all, the correctness and rapidity of judgment at first sight, which are peculiar to them, they arrive at prodigious results.

"To Mother Saint Perpetua, a woman of a strong and solid head, the vast moneyed business of the society was but child's play. None better than she understood how to buy depreciated properties, to raise them to their original value, and sell them to advantage; the average purchase of rents, the fluctuations of exchange, and the current prices of shares in all the leading speculations, were perfectly familiar to her. Never had she directed her agents to make a single false speculation, when it had been the question how to invest funds, with which good souls were constantly endowing the society of Saint Mary. She had established in the house a degree of order, of discipline, and, above all, of economy, that were indeed remarkable; the constant aim of all her exertions being, not to enrich herself, but the community over which she presided; for the spirit of association, when it is directed to an object of collective selfishness, gives to corporations all the faults and vices of individuals."

* * * * *

E.

The following is an extract from a letter addressed to me by one of the monks of the nineteenth century. A part I have omitted, because it does not express my own view, unless with qualifications which I could not make, except by full discussion of the subject.

"Woman in the Nineteenth Century should be a pure, chaste, holy being.

"This state of being in Woman is no more attained by the expansion of her intellectual capacity, than by the augmentation of her physical force.

"Neither is it attained by the increase or refinement of her love for Man, or for any object whatever, or for all objects collectively; but

"This state of being is attained by the reference of all her powers and all her actions to the source of Universal Love, whose constant requisition is a pure, chaste and holy life.

"So long as Woman looks to Man (or to society) for that which she needs, she will remain in an indigent state, for he himself is indigent of it, and as much needs it as she does.

"So long as this indigence continues, all unions or relations constructed between Man and Woman are constructed in indigence, and can produce only indigent results or unhappy consequences.

"The unions now constructing, as well as those in which the parties constructing them were generated, being based on self-delight, or lust, can lead to no more happiness in the twentieth than is found in the nineteenth century.

"It is not amended institutions, it is not improved education, it is not another selection of individuals for union, that can meliorate the said result, but the basis of the union must be changed.

"If in the natural order Woman and Man would adhere strictly to physiological or natural laws, in physical chastity, a most beautiful amendment of the human race, and human condition, would in a few generations adorn the world.

"Still, it belongs to Woman in the spiritual order, to devote herself wholly to her eternal husband, and become the Free Bride of the One who alone can elevate her to her true position, and reconstruct her a pure, chaste, and holy being."



F.

I have mislaid an extract from "The Memoirs of an American Lady," which I wished to use on this subject, but its import is, briefly, this:

Observing of how little consequence the Indian women are in youth, and how much in age, because in that trying life, good counsel and sagacity are more prized than charms, Mrs. Grant expresses a wish that reformers would take a hint from observation of this circumstance.

In another place she says: "The misfortune of our sex is, that young women are not regarded as the material from which old women must be made."

I quote from memory, but believe the weight of the remark is retained.

* * * * *

G.

EURIPIDES. SOPHOCLES.

As many allusions are made in the foregoing pages to characters of women drawn by the Greek dramatists, which may not be familiar to the majority of readers, I have borrowed from the papers of Miranda some notes upon them. I trust the girlish tone of apostrophising rapture may be excused. Miranda was very young at the time of writing, compared with her present mental age. Now, she would express the same feelings, but in a worthier garb—if she expressed them at all.

Iphigenia! Antigone! you were worthy to live! We are fallen on evil times, my sisters; our feelings have been checked; our thoughts questioned; our forms dwarfed and defaced by a bad nurture. Yet hearts like yours are in our breasts, living, if unawakened; and our minds are capable of the same resolves. You we understand at once; those who stare upon us pertly in the street, we cannot—could never understand.

You knew heroes, maidens, and your fathers were kings of men. You believed in your country and the gods of your country. A great occasion was given to each, whereby to test her character.

You did not love on earth; for the poets wished to show us the force of Woman's nature, virgin and unbiased. You were women; not wives, or lovers, or mothers. Those are great names, but we are glad to see you in untouched flower.

Were brothers so dear, then, Antigone? We have no brothers. We see no men into whose lives we dare look steadfastly, or to whose destinies we look forward confidently. We care not for their urns; what inscription could we put upon them? They live for petty successes, or to win daily the bread of the day. No spark of kingly fire flashes from their eyes.

None! are there none?

It is a base speech to say it. Yes! there are some such; we have sometimes caught their glances. But rarely have they been rocked in the same cradle as we, and they do not look upon us much; for the time is not yet come.

Thou art so grand and simple! we need not follow thee; thou dost not need our love.

But, sweetest Iphigenia! who knew thee, as to me thou art known? I was not born in vain, if only for the heavenly tears I have shed with thee. She will be grateful for them. I have understood her wholly, as a friend should; better than she understood herself.

With what artless art the narrative rises to the crisis! The conflicts in Agamemnon's mind, and the imputations of Menelaus, give us, at once, the full image of him, strong in will and pride, weak in virtue, weak in the noble powers of the mind that depend on imagination. He suffers, yet it requires the presence of his daughter to make him feel the full horror of what he is to do.

"Ah me! that breast, those cheeks, those golden tresses!"

It is her beauty, not her misery, that makes the pathos. This is noble. And then, too, the injustice of the gods, that she, this creature of unblemished loveliness, must perish for the sake of a worthless woman. Even Menelaus feels it the moment he recovers from his wrath.

"What hath she to do, The virgin daughter, with my Helena! * * Its former reasonings now My soul foregoes. * * * * For it is not just That thou shouldst groan, while my affairs go pleasantly, That those of thy house should die, and mine see the light."

Indeed, the overwhelmed aspect of the king of men might well move him.

"Men. Brother, give me to take thy right hand.

Aga. I give it, for the victory is thine, and I am wretched. I am, indeed, ashamed to drop the tear, And not to drop the tear I am ashamed."

How beautifully is Iphigenia introduced; beaming more and more softly on us with every touch of description! After Clytemnestra has given Orestes (then an infant) out of the chariot, she says:

"Ye females, in your arms Receive her, for she is of tender age. Sit here by my feet, my child, By thy mother, Iphigenia, and show These strangers how I am blessed in thee, And here address thee to thy father.

Iphi. O, mother! should I run, wouldst thou be angry? And embrace my father heart to heart?"

With the same sweet, timid trust she prefers the request to himself, and, as he holds her in his arms, he seems as noble as Guido's Archangel; as if he never could sink below the trust of such a being!

The Achilles, in the first scene, is fine. A true Greek hero; not too good; all flushed with the pride of youth, but capable of godlike impulses. At first, he thinks only of his own wounded pride (when he finds Iphigenia has been decoyed to Aulis under the pretest of becoming his wife); but the grief of the queen soon makes him superior to his arrogant chafings. How well he says,

"Far as a young man may, I will repress So great a wrong!"

By seeing him here, we understand why he, not Hector, was the hero of the Iliad. The beautiful moral nature of Hector was early developed by close domestic ties, and the cause of his country. Except in a purer simplicity of speech and manner, he might be a modern and a Christian. But Achilles is cast in the largest and most vigorous mould of the earlier day. His nature is one of the richest capabilities, and therefore less quickly unfolds its meaning. The impression it makes at the early period is only of power and pride; running as fleetly with his armor on as with it off; but sparks of pure lustre are struck, at moments, from the mass of ore. Of this sort is his refusal to see the beautiful virgin he has promised to protect. None of the Grecians must have the right to doubt his motives, How wise and prudent, too, the advice he gives as to the queen's conduct! He will cot show himself unless needed. His pride is the farthest possible remote from vanity. His thoughts are as free as any in our own time.

"The prophet? what is he? a man Who speaks, 'mong many falsehoods, but few truths, Whene'er chance leads him to speak true; when false, The prophet is no more."

Had Agamemnon possessed like clearness of sight, the virgin would not have perished, but Greece would have had no religion and no national existence.

When, in the interview with Agamemnon, the queen begins her speech, in the true matrimonial style, dignified though her gesture be, and true all she says, we feel that truth, thus sauced with taunts, will not touch his heart, nor turn him from his purpose. But when Iphigenia, begins her exquisite speech, as with the breathings of a lute,—

"Had I, my father, the persuasive voice Of Orpheus, &c. Compel me not What is beneath to view. I was the first To call thee father; me thou first didst call Thy child. I was the first that on thy knees Fondly caressed thee, and from thee received The fond caress. This was thy speech to me:— 'Shall I, my child, e'er see thee in some house Of splendor, happy in thy husband, live And flourish, as becomes my dignity?' My speech to thee was, leaning 'gainst thy cheek, (Which with my hand I now caress): 'And what Shall I then do for thee? Shall I receive My father when grown old, and in my house Cheer him with each fond office, to repay The careful nurture which he gave my youth?' These words are in my memory deep impressed; Thou hast forgot them, and will kill thy child."

Then she adjures him by all the sacred ties, and dwells pathetically on the circumstance which had struck even Menelaus.

"If Paris be enamored of his bride, His Helen,—what concerns it me? and how Comes he to my destruction? Look upon me; Give me a smile, give me a kiss, my father; That, if my words persuade thee not, in death I may have this memorial of thy love."

Never have the names of father and daughter been uttered with a holier tenderness than by Euripides, as in this most lovely passage, or in the "Supplicants," after the voluntary death of Evadne. Iphis says:

"What shall this wretch now do? Should I return To my own house?—sad desolation there I shall behold, to sink my soul with grief. Or go I to the house of Capaneus? That was delightful to me, when I found My daughter there; but she is there no more. Oft would she kiss my check, with fond caress Oft soothe me. To a father, waxing old, Nothing is dearer than a daughter! Sons Have spirits of higher pitch, but less inclined To sweet, endearing fondness. Lead me then, Instantly lead me to my house; consign My wretched age to darkness, there to pine And waste away. Old age, Struggling with many griefs, O, how I hate thee!"

But to return to Iphigenia,—how infinitely melting is her appeal to Orestes, whom she holds in her robe!

"My brother, small assistance canst thou give Thy friends; yet for thy sister with thy tears Implore thy father that she may not die. Even infants have a sense of ills; and see, My father! silent though he be, he sues To thee. Be gentle to me; on my life Have pity. Thy two children by this beard Entreat thee, thy dear children; one is yet An infant, one to riper years arrived."

The mention of Orestes, then an infant, though slight, is of a domestic charm that prepares the mind to feel the tragedy of his after lot. When the queen says,

"Dost thou sleep, My son? The rolling chariot hath subdued thee; Wake to thy sister's marriage happily."

we understand the horror of the doom which makes this cherished child a parricide. And so, when Iphigenia takes leave of him after her fate is by herself accepted,—

"Iphi. To manhood train Orestes. Cly. Embrace him, for thou ne'er shalt see him more. Iphi. (To Orestes.) Far as thou couldst, thou didst assist thy friends,"—

we know not how to blame the guilt of the maddened wife and mother. In her last meeting with Agamemnon, as in her previous expostulations and anguish, we see that a straw may turn the balance, and make her his deadliest foe. Just then, came the suit of Aegisthus,—then, when every feeling was uprooted or lacerated in her heart.

Iphigenia's moving address has no further effect than to make her father turn at bay and brave this terrible crisis. He goes out, firm in resolve; and she and her mother abandon themselves to a natural grief.

Hitherto nothing has been seen in Iphigenia, except the young girl, weak, delicate, full of feeling, and beautiful as a sunbeam on the full, green tree. But, in the next scene, the first impulse of that passion which makes and unmakes us, though unconfessed even to herself, though hopeless and unreturned, raises her at once into the heroic woman, worthy of the goddess who demands her.

Achilles appears to defend her, whom all others clamorously seek to deliver to the murderous knife. She sees him, and, fired with thoughts unknown before, devotes herself at once for the country which has given birth to such a man.

"To be too fond of life Becomes not me; nor for myself alone, But to all Greece, a blessing didst thou bear me. Shall thousands, when their country's injured, lift Their shields? shall thousands grasp the oar and dare, Advancing bravely 'gainst the foe, to die For Greece? And shall my life, my single life, Obstruct all this? Would this be just? What word Can we reply? Nay more, it is not right That he with all the Grecians should contest In fight, should die, and for a woman. No! More than a thousand women is one man Worthy to see the light of day. * * * for Greece I give my life. Slay me! demolish Troy! for these shall be Long time my monuments, my children these, My nuptials and my glory."

This sentiment marks Woman, when she loves enough to feel what a creature of glory and beauty a true Man would be, as much in our own time as that of Euripides. Cooper makes the weak Hetty say to her beautiful sister:

"Of course, I don't compare you with Harry. A handsome man is always far handsomer than any woman." True, it was the sentiment of the age, but it was the first time Iphigenia had felt it. In Agamemnon she saw her father; to him she could prefer her claim. In Achilles she saw a Man, the crown of creation, enough to fill the world with his presence, were all other beings blotted from its spaces. [Footnote: Men do not often reciprocate this pure love.

"Her prentice han' she tried on man, And then she made the lasses o',"

is a fancy, not a feeling, in their more frequently passionate and strong than noble or tender natures.]

The reply of Achilles is as noble. Here is his bride; he feels it now, and all his vain vaunting are hushed.

"Daughter of Agamemnon, highly blest Some god would make me, if I might attain Thy nuptials. Greece in thee I happy deem, And thee in Greece. * * * in thy thought Revolve this well; death is a dreadful thing."

How sweet it her reply,—and then the tender modesty with which she addresses him here and elsewhere as "stranger"

"Reflecting not on any, thus I speak: Enough of wars and slaughters from the charms Of Helen rise; but die not thou for me, O Stranger, nor distain thy sword with blood, But let me save my country if I may.

Achilles. O glorious spirit! naught have I 'gainst this To urge, since such thy will, for what thou sayst Is generous. Why should not the truth be spoken?"

But feeling that human weakness may conquer yet, he goes to wait at the alter, resolved to keep his promise of protection thoroughly.

In the next beautiful scene she shows that a few tears might overwhelm her in his absence. She raises her mother beyond weeping them, yet her soft purity she cannot impart.

"Iphi. My father, and my husband do not hate; Cly. For thy dear sake fierce contest must he bear. Iphi. For Greece reluctant me to death he yields; Cly. Basely, with guile unworthy Atreus' son."

This is truth incapable of an answer, and Iphigenia attempts none.

She begins the hymn which is to sustain her:

"Lead me; mine the glorious fate, To o'erturn the Phrygian state."

After the sublime flow of lyric heroism, she suddenly sinks back into the tenderer feeling of her dreadful fate.

"O my country, where these eyes Opened on Pelasgic skies! O ye virgins, once my pride, In Mycenae who abide!

CHORUS.

Why of Perseus, name the town, Which Cyclopean ramparts crown?

IPHIGENIA

Me you reared a beam of light, Freely now I sink in night."

Freely; as the messenger afterwards recounts it.

* * * * *

"Imperial Agamemnon, when he saw His daughter, as a victim to the grave, Advancing, groaned, and, bursting into tears, Turned from the sight his head, before his eyes, Holding his robe. The virgin near him stood, And thus addressed him: 'Father, I to thee Am present; for my country, and for all The land of Greece, I freely give myself A victim: to the altar let them lead me, Since such the oracle. If aught on me Depends, be happy, and obtain the prize Of glorious conquest, and revisit safe Your country. Of the Grecians, for this cause, Let no one touch me; with intrepid spirit Silent will I present my neck.' She spoke, And all that heard revered the noble soul And virtue of the virgin."

How quickly had the fair bud bloomed up into its perfection! Had she lived a thousand years, she could not have surpassed this. Goethe's Iphigenia, the mature Woman, with its myriad delicate traits, never surpasses, scarcely equals, what we know of her in Euripides.

Can I appreciate this work in a translation? I think so, impossible as it may seem to one who can enjoy the thousand melodies, and words in exactly the right place, and cadence of the original. They say you can see the Apollo Belvidere in a plaster cast, and I cannot doubt it, so great the benefit conferred on my mind by a transcript thus imperfect. And so with these translations from the Greek. I can divine the original through this veil, as I can see the movements of a spirited horse by those of his coarse grasscloth muffler. Besides, every translator who feels his subject is inspired, and the divine Aura informs even his stammering lips.

Iphigenia is more like one of the women Shakspeare loved than the others; she is a tender virgin, ennobled and strengthened by sentiment more than intellect; what they call a Woman par excellence.

Macaria is more like one of Massinger's women. She advances boldly, though with the decorum of her sex and nation:

"Macaria. Impute not boldness to me that I come Before you, strangers; this my first request I urge; for silence and a chaste reserve Is Woman's genuine praise, and to remain Quiet within the house. But I come forth, Hearing thy lamentations, Iolaus; Though charged with no commission, yet perhaps I may be useful." * *

Her speech when she offers herself as the victim is reasonable, as one might speak to-day. She counts the cost all through. Iphigenia is too timid and delicate to dwell upon the loss of earthly bliss and the due experience of life, even as much as Jephtha'a daughter did; but Macaria is explicit, as well befits the daughter of Hercules.

"Should these die, myself Preserved, of prosperous future could I form One cheerful hope? A poor forsaken virgin who would deign To take in marriage? Who would wish for sons From one so wretched? Better then to die, Than bear such undeserved miseries; One less illustrious this might more beseem.

* * * * *

I have a soul that unreluctantly Presents itself, and I proclaim aloud That for my brothers and myself I die. I am not fond of life, but think I gain An honorable prize to die with glory."

Still nobler when Iolaus proposes rather that she shall draw lots with her sisters.

"By lot I will not die, for to such death No thanks are due, or glory—name it not. If you accept me, if my offered life Be grateful to you, willingly I give it For these; but by constraint I will not die."

Very fine are her parting advice and injunctions to them all:

"Farewell! revered old man, farewell! and teach These youths in all things to be wise, like thee, Naught will avail them more."

Macaria has the clear Minerva eye; Antigone's is deeper and more capable of emotion, but calm; Iphigenia's glistening, gleaming with angel truth, or dewy as a hidden violet.

I am sorry that Tennyson, who spoke with such fitness of all the others in his "Dream of fair Women," has not of Iphigenia. Of her alone he has not made a fit picture, but only of the circumstances of the sacrifice. He can never have taken to heart this work of Euripides, yet he was so worthy to feel it. Of Jephtha's daughter he has spoken as he would of Iphigenia, both in her beautiful song, and when

"I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became A solemn scorn of Ills.

It comforts me in this one thought to dwell— That I subdued me to my father's will; Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell, Sweetens the spirit still.

Moreover it is written, that my race Hewed Ammon, hip and thigh, from Arroer Or Arnon unto Minneth. Here her face Glowed as I looked on her.

She looked her lips; she left me where I stood; 'Glory to God,' she sang, and past afar, Thridding the sombre boskage of the woods, Toward the morning-star."

In the "Trojan dames" there are fine touches of nature with regard to Cassandra. Hecuba shows that mixture of shame and reverence that prose kindred always do, towards the inspired child, the poet, the elected sufferer for the race.

When the herald announces that she is chosen to be the mistress of Agamemnon, Hecuba answers indignant, and betraying the involuntary pride and faith she felt in this daughter.

"The virgin of Apollo, whom the God, Radiant with golden looks, allowed to live. In her pure vow of maiden chastity? Tal. With love the raptured virgin smote his heart. Hec. Cast from thee, O my daughter, cast away Thy sacred wand; rend off the honored wreaths, The splendid ornaments that grace thy brows."

But the moment Cassandra appears, singing wildly her inspired song, Hecuba, calls her

"My frantic child."

Yet how graceful she is in her tragic phrenzy, the chorus shows—

"How sweetly at thy house's ills thou smilest, Chanting what haply thou wilt not show true!"

But if Hecuba dares not trust her highest instinct about her daughter, still less can the vulgar mind of the herald (a man not without tenderness of heart, but with no princely, no poetic blood) abide the wild, prophetic mood which insults his prejudices both as to country and decorums of the sex. Yet Agamemnon, though not a noble man, is of large mould, and could admire this strange beauty which excited distaste in common minds.

"Tal. What commands respect, and is held high As wise, is nothing better than the mean Of no repute; for this most potent king Of all the Grecians, the much-honored son Of Atreus, is enamored with his prize, This frantic raver. I am a poor man, Yet would I not receive her to my bed."

Cassandra answers, with a careless disdain,

"This is a busy slave."

With all the lofty decorum of manners among the ancients, how free was their intercourse, man to man, how full the mutual understanding between prince and "busy slave!" Not here in adversity only, but in the pomp of power it was so. Kings were approached with ceremonious obeisance, but not hedged round with etiquette; they could see and know their fellows.

The Andromache here is just as lovely as that of the Iliad.

To her child whom they are about to murder, the same that was frightened at the "glittering plume," she says,

"Dost thou weep, My son? Hast thou a sense of thy ill fate? Why dost thou clasp me with thy hands, why hold My robes, and shelter thee beneath my wings, Like a young bird? No more my Hector comes, Returning from the tomb; he grasps no more His glittering spear, bringing protection to thee."

* * * * *

* * "O, soft embrace, And to thy mother dear. O, fragrant breath! In vain I swathed thy infant limbs, in vain I gave thee nurture at this breast, and tolled, Wasted with care. If ever, now embrace, Now clasp thy mother; throw thine arms around My neck, and join thy cheek, thy lips to mine."

As I look up, I meet the eyes of Beatrice Cenci, Beautiful one! these woes, even, were less than thine, yet thou seemest to understand them all. Thy clear, melancholy gaze says, they, at least, had known moments of bliss, and the tender relations of nature had not been broken and polluted from the very first. Yes! the gradations of woe are all but infinite: only good can be infinite.

Certainly the Greeks knew more of real home intercourse and more of Woman than the Americans. It is in vain to tell me of outward observances. The poets, the sculptors, always tell the truth. In proportion as a nation is refined, women must have an ascendency. It is the law of nature.

Beatrice! thou wert not "fond of life," either, more than those princesses. Thou wert able to cut it down in the full flower of beauty, as an offering to the best known to thee. Thou wert not so happy as to die for thy country or thy brethren, but thou wert worthy of such an occasion.

In the days of chivalry, Woman was habitually viewed more as an ideal; but I do not know that she inspired a deeper and more home-felt reverence than Iphigenia in the breast of Achilles, or Macarla in that of her old guardian, Iolaus.

THE END