FLORENCE.

The following notes respecting Margaret's residence in Florence were

furnished to the editors by Mr. W.H. Hurlbut.

I passed about six weeks in the city of Florence, during the months of

March and April, 1850. During the whole of that time Madame Ossoli was

residing in a house at the corner of the Via della Misericordia and

the Piazza Santa Maria Novella. This house is one of those large, well

built modern houses that show strangely in the streets of the stately

Tuscan city. But if her rooms were less characteristically Italian,

they were the more comfortable, and, though small, had a quiet,

home-like air. Her windows opened upon a fine view of the beautiful

Piazza; for such was their position, that while the card-board façade

of the church of Sta. Maria Novella could only be seen at an angle,

the exquisite Campanile rose fair and full against the sky. She

enjoyed this most graceful tower very much, and, I think, preferred it

even to Giotto's noble work. Its quiet religious grace was grateful to

her spirit, which seemed to be yearning for peace from the cares that

had so vexed and heated the world about her for a year past.

I saw her frequently at these rooms, where, surrounded by her books

and papers, she used to devote her mornings to her literary labors.

Once or twice I called in the morning, and found her quite immersed

in manuscripts and journals. Her evenings were passed usually in

the society of her friends, at her own rooms, or at theirs. With the

pleasant circle of Americans, then living in Florence, she was on the

best terms, and though she seemed always to bring with her her own

most intimate society, and never to be quite free from the company of

busy thoughts, and the cares to which her life had introduced her,

she was always cheerful, and her remarkable powers of conversation

subserved on all occasions the kindliest, purposes of good-will in

social intercourse.

The friends with whom she seemed to be on the terms of most sympathy,

were an Italian lady, the Marchesa Arconati Visconti,[A]--the

exquisite sweetness of whose voice interpreted, even to those who knew

her only as a transient acquaintance, the harmony of her nature,--and

some English residents in Florence, among whom I need only name Mr.

and Mrs. Browning, to satisfy the most anxious friends of Madame

Ossoli that the last months of her Italian life were cheered by all

the light that communion with gifted and noble natures could afford.

The Marchesa Arconati used to persuade Madame Ossoli to occasional

excursions with her into the environs of Florence, and she passed some

days of the beautiful spring weather at the villa of that lady.

Her delight in nature seemed to be a source of great comfort and

strength to her. I shall not easily forget the account she gave me, on

the evening of one delicious Sunday in April, of a walk which she had

taken with her husband in the afternoon of that day, to the hill of

San Miniato. The amethystine beauty of the Apennines,--the

cypress trees that sentinel the way up to the ancient and deserted

church,--the church itself, standing high and lonely on its hill,

begirt with the vine-clad, crumbling walls of Michel Angelo,--the

repose of the dome-crowned city in the vale below,--seemed to have

wrought their impression with peculiar force upon her mind that

afternoon. On their way home, they had entered the conventual church

that stands half way up the hill, just as the vesper service was

beginning, and she spoke of the simple spirit of devotion that filled

the place, and of the gentle wonder with which, to use her own words,

the "peasant women turned their glances, the soft dark glances of

the Tuscan peasant's eyes," upon the strangers, with a singular

enthusiasm. She was in the habit of taking such walks with her

husband, and she never returned from one of them, I believe, without

some new impression of beauty and of lasting truth. While her

judgment, intense in its sincerity, tested, like an _aqua regia_, the

value of all facts that came within her notice, her sympathies

seemed, by an instinctive and unerring action, to transmute all her

experiences instantly into permanent treasures.

The economy of the house in which she lived afforded me occasions

for observing the decisive power, both of control and of consolation,

which she could exert over others. Her maid,--an impetuous girl of

Rieti, a town which rivals Tivoli as a hot-bed of homicide,--was

constantly involved in disputes with a young Jewess, who occupied the

floor above Madame Ossoli. On one occasion, this Jewess offered the

maid a deliberate and unprovoked insult. The girl of Rieti, snatching

up a knife, ran up stairs to revenge herself after her national

fashion. The porter's little daughter followed her and, running

into Madame Ossoli's rooms, besought her interference. Madame Ossoli

reached the apartment of the Jewess, just in time to interpose between

that beetle-browed lady and her infuriated assailant. Those who

know the insane license of spirit which distinguishes the Roman

mountaineers, will understand that this was a position of no slight

hazard. The Jewess aggravated the danger of the offence by the

obstinate maliciousness of her aspect and words. Such, however, was

Madame Ossoli's entire self-possession and forbearance, that she was

able to hold her ground, and to remonstrate with this difficult pair

of antagonists so effectually, as to bring the maid to penitent tears,

and the Jewess to a confession of her injustice, and a promise of

future good behavior.

The porter of the house, who lived in a dark cavernous hole on the

first floor, was slowly dying of a consumption, the sufferings of

which were imbittered by the chill dampness of his abode. His hollow

voice and hacking cough, however, could not veil the grateful accent

with which he uttered any allusion to Madame Ossoli. He was so close

a prisoner to his narrow, windowless chamber, that when I inquired for

Madame Ossoli he was often obliged to call his little daughter, before

he could tell me whether Madame was at home, or not; and he always

tempered the official uniformity of the question with some word

of tenderness. Indeed, he rarely pronounced her name; sufficiently

indicating to the child whom it was that I was seeking, by the

affectionate epithet he used, "_Lita! e la cara Signora in casa_?"

The composure and force of Madame Ossoli's character would, indeed,

have given her a strong influence for good over any person with whom

she was brought into contact; but this influence must have been even

extraordinary over the impulsive and ill-disciplined children of

passion and of sorrow, among whom she was thrown in Italy.

Her husband related to me once, with a most reverent enthusiasm, some

stories of the good she had done in Rieti, during her residence there.

The Spanish troops were quartered in that town, and the dissipated

habits of the officers, as well as the excesses of the soldiery, kept

the place in a constant irritation. Though overwhelmed with cares and

anxieties, Madame Ossoli found time and collectedness of mind enough

to interest herself in the distresses of the towns-people, and to pour

the soothing oil of a wise sympathy upon their wounded and indignant

feelings. On one occasion, as the Marchese told me, she undoubtedly

saved the lives of a family in Rieti, by inducing them to pass over

in silence an insult offered to one of them by an intoxicated Spanish

soldier,--and, on another, she interfered between two brothers,

maddened by passion, and threatening to stain the family hearth with

the guilt of fratricide.[B]

Such incidents, and the calm tenor of Madame Ossoli's confident

hopes.--the assured faith and unshaken bravery, with which she met and

turned aside the complicated troubles, rising sometimes into absolute

perils, of their last year in Italy,--seemed to have inspired her

husband with a feeling of respect for her, amounting to reverence.

This feeling, modifying the manifest tenderness with which he hung

upon her every word and look, and sought to anticipate her simplest

wishes, was luminously visible in the air and manner of his

affectionate devotion to her.

The frank and simple recognition of his wife's singular nobleness,

which he always displayed, was the best evidence that his own nature

was of a fine and noble strain. And those who knew him best, are, I

believe, unanimous in testifying that his character did in no respect

belie the evidence borne by his manly and truthful countenance, to

its warmth and its sincerity. He seemed quite absorbed in his wife and

child. I cannot remember ever to have found Madame Ossoli alone, on

those evenings when she remained at home. Her husband was always with

her. The picture of their room rises clearly on my memory. A small

square room, sparingly, yet sufficiently furnished, with polished

floor and frescoed ceiling,--and, drawn up closely before the cheerful

fire, an oval table, on which stood a monkish lamp of brass, with

depending chains that support quaint classic cups for the olive

oil. There, seated beside his wife, I was sure to find the Marchese,

reading from some patriotic book, and dressed in the dark brown,

red-corded coat of the Guardia Civica, which it was his melancholy

pleasure to wear at home. So long as the conversation could be carried

on in Italian, he used to remain, though he rarely joined in it to any

considerable degree; but if a number of English and American visitors

came in, he used to take his leave and go to the Café d'Italia,

being very unwilling, as Madame Ossoli told me, to impose any seeming

restraint, by his presence, upon her friends, with whom he was unable

to converse. For the same reason, he rarely remained with her at

the houses of her English or American friends, though he always

accompanied her thither, and returned to escort her home.

I conversed with him so little that I can hardly venture to make any

remarks on the impression which I received from his conversation,

with regard to the character of his mind. Notwithstanding his general

reserve and curtness of speech, on two or three occasions he showed

himself to possess quite a quick and vivid fancy, and even a certain

share of humor. I have heard him tell stories remarkably well. One

tale, especially, which related to a dream he had in early life, about

a treasure concealed in his father's house, which was thrice repeated,

and made so strong an impression on his mind as to induce him to

batter a certain panel in the library almost to pieces, in vain, but

which received something like a confirmation from the fact, that a

Roman attorney, who rented that and other rooms from the family, after

his father's death, grew suddenly and unaccountably rich,--I remember

as being told with great felicity and vivacity of expression.

His recollections of the trouble and the dangers through which he

had passed with his wife seemed to be overpoweringly painful. On one

occasion, he began to tell me a story of their stay in the mountains:

He had gone out to walk, and had unconsciously crossed the

Neapolitan frontier. Suddenly meeting with a party of the Neapolitan

_gendarmerie_, he was called to account for his trespass, and being

unable to produce any papers testifying to his loyalty, or

the legality of his existence, he was carried off, despite his

protestations, and lodged for the night in a miserable guard-house,

whence he-was taken, next morning, to the head-quarters of the officer

commanding in the neighborhood. Here, matters might have gone badly

with him, but for the accident that he had upon his person a business

letter directed to himself as the Marchese Ossoli. A certain abbé, the

regimental chaplain, having once spent some time in Rome, recognized

the name as that of an officer in the Pope's Guardia Nobile,[C]

whereupon, the Neapolitan officers not only ordered him to be

released, but sent him back, with many apologies, in a carriage, and

under an armed escort, to the Roman territory. When he reached this

part of his story, and came to his meeting with Madame Ossoli,

the remembrance of her terrible distress during the period of his

detention so overcame him, that he was quite unable to go on.

Towards their child he manifested an overflowing tenderness, and most

affectionate care.

Notwithstanding the intense contempt and hatred which Signore Ossoli,

in common with all the Italian liberals, cherished towards the

ecclesiastical body, he seemed to be a very devout Catholic. He used

to attend regularly the vesper service, in some of the older and

quieter churches of Florence; and, though I presume Madame Ossoli

never accepted in any degree the Roman Catholic forms of faith, she

frequently accompanied him on these occasions. And I know that she

enjoyed the devotional influences of the church ritual, as performed

in the cathedral, and at Santa Croce, especially during the

Easter-week.

Though condemned by her somewhat uncertain position at Florence,[D]

as well as by the state of things in Tuscany at that time, to a

comparative inaction, Madame Ossoli never seemed to lose in the least

the warmth of her interest in the affairs of Italy, nor did she bate

one jot of heart or hope for the future of that country. She was much

depressed, however, I think, by the apparent apathy and prostration

of the Liberals in Tuscany; and the presence of the Austrian troops in

Florence was as painful and annoying to her, as it could have been

to any Florentine patriot. When it was understood that Prince

Lichtenstein had requested the Grand Duke to order a general

illumination in honor of the anniversary of the battle of Novara,

Madame Ossoli, I recollect, was more moved, than I remember on

any other occasion to have seen her. And she used to speak very

regretfully of the change which had come over the spirit of Florence,

since her former residence there. Then all was gayety and hope. Bodies

of artisans, gathering recruits as they passed along, used to form

themselves into choral bands, as they returned from their work at the

close of the day, and filled the air with the chants of liberty. Now,

all was a sombre and desolate silence.

Her own various cares so occupied Madame Ossoli that she seemed to be

very much withdrawn from the world of art. During the whole time of my

stay in Florence, I do not think she once visited either of the Grand

Ducal Galleries, and the only studio in which she seemed to feel any

very strong interest, was that of Mademoiselle Favand, a lady whose

independence of character, self-reliance, and courageous genius, could

hardly have failed to attract her congenial sympathies.

But among all my remembrances of Madame Ossoli, there are none more

beautiful or more enduring than those which recall to me another

person, a young stranger, alone and in feeble health, who found, in

her society, her sympathy, and her counsels, a constant atmosphere of

comfort and of peace. Every morning, wild-flowers, freshly gathered,

were laid upon her table by the grateful hands of this young man;

every evening, beside her seat in her little room, his mild, pure face

was to be seen, bright with a quiet happiness, that must have bound

his heart by no weak ties to her with whose fate his own was so

closely to be linked.

And the recollection of such benign and holy influences breathed upon

the human hearts of those who came within her sphere, will not, I

trust, be valueless to those friends, in whose love her memory is

enshrined with more immortal honors than the world can give or take

away.

[Footnote A: Just before I left Florence, Madame Ossoli showed me a

small marble figure of a child, playing among flowers or vine leaves,

which, she said, was a portrait of the child of Madame Arconati,

presented to her by that lady. I mention this circumstance, because I

have understood that a figure answering this description was recovered

from the wreck of the Elizabeth.]

[Footnote B: The circumstances of this story, perhaps, deserve to

be recorded. The brothers were two young men, the sons and the

chief supports of Madame Ossoli's landlord at Rieti. They were both

married,--the younger one to a beautiful girl, who had brought him no

dowry, and who, in the opinion of her husband's family, had not shown

a proper disposition to bear her share of the domestic burdens and

duties. The bickerings and disputes which resulted from this state

of affairs, on one unlucky day, took the form of an open and violent

quarrel. The younger son, who was absent from home when the conflict

began, returned to find it at its height, and was received by his wife

with passionate tears, and by his relations with sharp recriminations.

His brother, especially, took it upon himself to upbraid him, in the

name of all his family, for bringing into their home-circle such a

firebrand of discord. Charges and counter charges followed in rapid

succession, and hasty words soon led to blows. From blows the appeal

to the knife was swiftly made, and when Madame Ossoli, attracted by

the unusual clamor, entered upon the scene of action, she found that

blood had been already drawn, and that the younger brother was only

restrained from following up the first assault by the united force of

all the females, who hung about him, while the older brother, grasping

a heavy billet of wood, and pale with rage, stood awaiting his

antagonist. Passing through the group of weeping and terrified women,

Madame Ossoli made her way up to the younger brother and, laying her

hand upon his shoulder, asked him to put down his weapon and listen to

her. It was in vain that he attempted to ignore her presence. Before

the spell of her calm, firm, well-known voice, his fury melted away.

She spoke to him again, and besought him to show himself a man, and

to master his foolish and wicked rage. With a sudden impulse, he flung

his knife upon the ground, turned to Madame Ossoli, clasped and kissed

her hand, and then running towards his brother, the two met in a

fraternal embrace, which brought the threatened tragedy to a joyful

termination.]

[Footnote C: It will be understood, that this officer was the

Marchese's older brother, who still adheres to the Papal cause.]

[Footnote D: She believed herself to be, and I suppose really

was, under the surveillance of the police during her residence in

Florence.]