TO THE SAME.

_Providence, Oct_. 21, 1838.

* * * * I am reminded by what you say, of an era in my own existence;

it is seven years bygone. For bitter months a heavy weight had been

pressing on me,--the weight of deceived friendship. I could not be

much alone,--a great burden of family cares pressed upon me; I was in

the midst of society, and obliged to act my part there as well as I

could. At that time I took up the study of German, and my progress was

like the rebound of a string pressed almost to bursting. My mind being

then in the highest state of action, heightened, by intellectual

appreciation, every pang; and imagination, by prophetic power, gave to

the painful present all the weight of as painful a future.

At this time I never had any consolation, except in long solitary

walks, and my meditations then were so far aloof from common life,

that on my return my fall was like that of the eagle, which the

sportsman's hand calls bleeding from his lofty flight, to stain the

earth with his blood.

In such hours we feel so noble, so full of love and bounty, that we

cannot conceive how any pain should have been needed to teach us. It

then seems we are so born for good, that such means of leading us to

it were wholly unnecessary. But I have lived to know that the secret

of all things is pain, and that nature travaileth most painfully with

her noblest product. I was not without hours of deep spiritual

insight, and consciousness of the inheritance of vast powers. I

touched the secret of the universe, and by that touch was invested

with talismanic power which has never left me, though it sometimes

lies dormant for a long time.

One day lives always in my memory; one chastest, heavenliest day of

communion with the soul of things. It was Thanksgiving-day. I was free

to be alone; in the meditative woods, by the choked-up fountain, I

passed its hours, each of which contained ages of thought and emotion.

I saw, then, how idle were my griefs; that I had acquired _the

thought_ of each object which had been taken from me; that more

extended personal relations would only have given me pleasures which

then seemed not worth my care, and which would surely have dimmed my

sense of the spiritual meaning of all which had passed. I felt how

true it was that nothing in any being which was fit for me, could long

be kept from me; and that, if separation could be, real intimacy had

never been. All the films seemed to drop from my existence, and I was

sure that I should never starve in this desert world, but that manna

would drop from Heaven, if I would but rise with every rising sun to

gather it.

In the evening I went to the church-yard; the moon sailed above the

rosy clouds,--the crescent moon rose above the heavenward-pointing

spire. At that hour a vision came upon my soul, whose final scene last

month interpreted. The rosy clouds of illusion are all vanished; the

moon has waxed to full. May my life be a church, full of devout

thoughts end solemn music. I pray thus, my dearest child! "Our Father!

let not the heaviest shower be spared; let not the gardener forbear

his knife till the fair, hopeful tree of existence be brought to its

fullest blossom and fruit!"

* * * * *

TO THE SAME.

_Jamaica Plain, June_, 1839.

* * * I have had a pleasant visit at Nahant, but was no sooner there than

the air braced me so violently as to drive all the blood to my head. I

had headache two of the three days we were there, and yet I enjoyed my

stay very much. We had the rocks and piazzas to ourselves, and were on

sufficiently good terms not to destroy, if we could not enhance, one

another's pleasure.

The first night we had a storm, and the wind roared and wailed round

the house that Ossianic poetry of which you hear so many strains. Next

day was clear and brilliant, with a high north-west wind. I went out

about six o'clock, and had a two hours' scramble before breakfast. I

do not like to sit still in this air, which exasperates all my nervous

feelings; but when I can exhaust myself in climbing, I feel

delightfully,--the eye is so sharpened, and the mind so full of

thought. The outlines of all objects, the rocks, the distant sails,

even the rippling of the ocean, were so sharp that they seemed to

press themselves into the brain. When I see a natural scene by such a

light it stays in my memory always as a picture; on milder days it

influences me more in the way of reverie. After breakfast, we walked

on the beaches. It was quite low tide, no waves, and the fine sand

eddying wildly about. I came home with that frenzied headache which

you are so unlucky as to know, covered my head with wet towels, and

went to bed. After dinner I was better, and we went to the

Spouting-horn. C---- was perched close to the fissure, far above me,

and, in a pale green dress, she looked like the nymph of the place. I

lay down on a rock, low in the water, where I could hear the twin

harmonies of the sucking of the water into the spout, and the washing

of the surge on the foot of the rock. I never passed a more delightful

afternoon. Clouds of pearl and amber were slowly drifting across the

sky, or resting a while to dream, like me, near the water. Opposite

me, at considerable distance, was a line of rock, along which the

billows of the advancing tide chased one another, and leaped up

exultingly as they were about to break. That night we had a sunset of

the gorgeous, autumnal kind, and in the evening very brilliant

moonlight; but the air was so cold I could enjoy it but a few minutes.

Next day, which was warm and soft, I was out on the rocks all day. In

the afternoon I was out alone, and had an admirable place, a cleft

between two vast towers of rock with turret-shaped tops. I got on a

ledge of rock at their foot, where I could lie and let the waves wash

up around me, and look up at the proud turrets rising into the

prismatic light. This evening was very fine; all the sky covered with

crowding clouds, profound, but not sullen of mood, the moon wading,

the stars peeping, the wind sighing very softly. We lay on the high

rocks and listened to the plashing of the waves. The next day was

good, but the keen light was too much for my eyes and brain; and,

though I am glad to have been there, I am as glad to get back to our

garlanded rocks, and richly-green fields and groves. I wish you could

come to me now; we have such wealth of roses.

* * * * *

TO THE SAME.

_Jamaica Plain, Aug., 1839_.

* * * * I returned home well, full of earnestness; yet, I know not why,

with the sullen, boding sky came a mood of sadness, nay, of gloom, black

as Hades, which I have vainly striven to fend off by work, by exercise,

by high memories. Very glad was I of a painful piece of intelligence,

which came the same day with your letter, to bring me on excuse for

tears. That was a black Friday, both above and within. What demon

resists our good angel, and seems at such times to have the mastery?

Only _seems_, I say to myself; it is but the sickness of the

immortal soul, and shall by-and-by be cast aside like a film. I think

this is the great step of our life,--to change the _nature_ of

our self-reliance. We find that the will cannot conquer circumstances,

and that our temporal nature must vary its hue here with the food that

is given it. Only out of mulberry leaves will the silk-worm spin its

thread fine and durable. The mode of our existence is not in our own

power; but behind it is the immutable essence that cannot be

tarnished; and to hold fast to this conviction, to live as far as

possible by its light, cannot be denied us if we elect this kind of

self-trust. Yet is sickness wearisome; and I rejoice to say that my

demon seems to have been frightened away by this day's sun. But,

conscious of these diseases of the mind, believe that I can sympathize

with a friend when subject to the same. Do not fail to go and stay

with ---------; few live so penetrating and yet so kind, so true, so

sensitive. She is the spirit of love as well as of intellect. * * * *

* * * * *

TO THE SAME.

MY BELOVED CHILD: I confess I was much disappointed when I first

received your letter this evening. I have been quite ill for two or

three days, and looked forward to your presence as a restorative. But

think not I would have had you act differently; far better is it for

me to have my child faithful to duty than even to have her with me.

Such was the lesson I taught her in a better hour. I am abashed to

think how often lately I have found excuses for indolence in the

weakness of my body; while now, after solitary communion with my

better nature, I feel it was weakness of mind, weak fear of depression

and conflict. But the Father of our spirits will not long permit a

heart fit for worship

"--------- to seek

From weak recoils, exemptions weak,

After false gods to go astray,

Deck altars vile with garlands gay," etc.

His voice has reached me; and I trust the postponement of your visit

will give me space to nerve myself to what strength I should, so that,

when we do meet, I shall rejoice that you did not come to help or

soothe me; for I shall have helped and soothed myself. Indeed, I would

not so willingly that you should see my short-comings as know that

they exist. Pray that I may never lose sight of my vocation; that I

may not make ill-health a plea for sloth and cowardice; pray that,

whenever I do, I may be punished more swiftly than this time, by a

sadness as deep as now.

* * * * *

TO HER BROTHER, R.

_Cambridge, August_ 6, 1842.

My dear R.: I want to hear how you enjoyed your journey, and what you

think of the world as surveyed from mountain-tops. I enjoy exceedingly

staying among the mountains. I am satisfied with reading these bolder

lines in the manuscript of Nature. Merely gentle and winning scenes

are not enough for me. I wish my lot had been cast amid the sources of

the streams, where the voice of the hidden torrent is heard by night,

where the eagle soars, and the thunder resounds in long peals from

side to side; where the grasp of a more powerful emotion has rent

asunder the rocks, and the long purple shadows fall like a broad wing

upon the valley. All places, like all persons, I know, have beauty;

but only in some scenes, and with some people, can I expand and feel

myself at home. I feel all this the more for having passed my earlier

life in such a place as Cambridgeport. There I had nothing except the

little flower-garden behind the house, and the elms before the door. I

used to long and sigh for beautiful places such as I read of. There

was not one walk for me, except over the bridge. I liked that very

much,--the river, and the city glittering in sunset, and the lively

undulating line all round, and the light smokes, seen in some weather.

* * * * *

LETTER TO THE SAME.

_Milwaukie, July _29, 1848.

DEAR R.: * * * Daily I thought of you during my visit to the

Rock-river territory. It is only five years since the poor Indians

have been dispossessed of this region of sumptuous loveliness, such as

can hardly be paralleled in the world. No wonder they poured out their

blood freely before they would go. On one island, belonging to a Mr.

H., with whom we stayed, are still to be found their "caches" for

secreting provisions,--the wooden troughs in which they pounded their

corn, the marks of their tomahawks upon felled trees. When he first

came, he found the body of an Indian woman, in a canoe, elevated on

high poles, with all her ornaments on. This island is a spot, where

Nature seems to have exhausted her invention in crowding it with all

kinds of growths, from the richest trees down to the most delicate

plants. It divides the river which there sweeps along in clear and

glittering current, between noble parks, richest green lawns, pictured

rocks crowned with old hemlocks, or smooth bluffs, three hundred feet

high, the most beautiful of all. Two of these,--the Eagle's Nest, and

the Deer's Walk, still the resort of the grand and beautiful creature

from which they are named,--were the scene of some of the happiest

hours of my life. I had no idea, from verbal description, of the

beauty of these bluffs, nor can I hope to give any to others. They lie

so magnificently bathed in sunlight, they touch the heavens with so

sharp and fair a line. This is one of the finest parts of the river;

but it seems beautiful enough to fill any heart and eye all along its

course, nowhere broken or injured by the hand of man. And there, I

thought, if we two could live, and you could have a farm which would

not cost a twentieth part the labor of a New England farm, and would

pay twenty times as much for the labor, and have our books and, our

pens and a little boat on the river, how happy we might be for four or

five years,--at least, _as_ happy as Fate permits mortals to be.

For we, I think, are congenial, and if I could hope permanent peace on

the earth, I might hope it with you.

You will be glad to hear that I feel overpaid for coming here. Much is

my life enriched by the images of the great Niagara, of the vast

lakes, of the heavenly sweetness of the prairie scenes, and, above

all, by the heavenly region where I would so gladly have lived. My

health, too, is materially benefited. I hope to come back better

fitted for toil and care, as well as with beauteous memories to

sustain me in them.

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.

We may, with satisfaction, add to these notes the words to which Haydn

has adapted his magnificent music in "The Creation."

"In native worth and honor clad, with beauty, courage, strength

adorned, erect to heaven, and tall, he stands, a Man!--the lord and

king of all! The large and arched front sublime of wisdom deep

declares the seat, and in his eyes with brightness shines the soul,

the breath and image of his God. With fondness leans upon his breast

the partner for him formed,--a woman fair, and graceful spouse. Her

softly smiling virgin looks, of flowery spring the mirror, bespeak him

love, and joy and bliss."

Whoever has heard this music must have a mental standard as to what

Man and Woman should be. Such was marriage in Eden when "erect to

heaven _he_ stood;" but since, like other institutions, this must

be not only reformed, but revived, the following lines may be offered

as a picture of something intermediate,--the seed of the future

growth:--

H.

THE SACRED MARRIAGE.

And has another's life as large a scope?

It may give due fulfilment to thy hope,

And every portal to the unknown may ope.

If, near this other life, thy inmost feeling

Trembles with fateful prescience of revealing

The future Deity, time is still concealing;

If thou feel thy whole force drawn more and more

To launch that other bark on seas without a shore;

And no still secret must be kept in store;

If meannesses that dim each temporal deed,

The dull decay that mars the fleshly weed,

And flower of love that seems to fall and leave no seed--

Hide never the full presence from thy sight

Of mutual aims and tasks, ideals bright,

Which feed their roots to-day on all this seeming blight.

Twin stars that mutual circle in the heaven,

Two parts for spiritual concord given,

Twin Sabbaths that inlock the Sacred Seven;

Still looking to the centre for the cause,

Mutual light giving to draw out the powers,

And learning all the other groups by cognizance of one another's laws.

The parent love the wedded love includes;

The one permits the two their mutual moods;

The two each other know, 'mid myriad multitudes;

With child-like intellect discerning love,

And mutual action energising love,

In myriad forms affiliating love.

A world whose seasons bloom from pole to pole,

A force which knows both starting-point and goal,

A Home in Heaven,--the Union in the Soul.