reach her, while lunch was being prepared under the trees, Robert
Browning put on his talking-cap again and discoursed, to two delighted
listeners, of her who slept. After expressing his joy at her enjoyment
of the morning, the poet’s soul took fire by its own friction, and
glowed with the brilliance of its theme. Knowing well that he was
before fervent admirers of his wife, he did not fear to speak of her
genius, which he did almost with awe, losing himself so entirely in
her glory that one could see that he did not feel worthy to unloose
her shoe-latchet, much less to call her his own. This led back to the
birth of his first love for her, and then, without reserve, he told us
the real story of that romance, “the course of” which “true love never
did run smooth.” There have been several printed stories of the loves
of Elizabeth and Robert Browning, and we had read some of these; but as
the poet’s own tale differed essentially from the others, and as the
divine genius of the heroine has returned to its native heaven, whilst
her life on earth now belongs to posterity, it cannot be a breach of
confidence to let the truth be known.
[Sidenote: The true story of her marriage.]
Mr. Barrett, the father of Elizabeth, though himself a superior man,
and capable of appreciating his gifted child, was, in some sense, an
eccentric. He had an unaccountable aversion to the idea of “marrying
off” any of his children. Having wealth, a sumptuous house, and being
a widower, he had somehow made up his mind to keep them all about him.
Elizabeth, the eldest, had been an invalid from her early youth, owing
partly to the great shock which her exquisite nervous organization
received when she saw an idolized brother drown before her eyes,
without having the power to save him. Grief at this event naturally
threw her much within herself, while shattered health kept her confined
for years to her room. There she thought, studied, wrote; and from
her sick-chamber went forth the winged inspiration of her genius.
These came into the heart of Robert Browning, nesting there, awakened
love for “The Great Unknown,” and he sought her out. Finding that the
invalid did not receive strangers, he wrote her a letter, intense with
his desire to see her. She reluctantly consented to an interview. He
flew to her apartment, was admitted by the nurse, in whose presence
only could he see the deity at whose shrine he had long worshipped. But
the golden opportunity was not to be lost; love became oblivious to
any save the presence of the real of its ideal. Then and there Robert
Browning poured out his impassioned soul into hers; though his tale
of love seemed only an enthusiast’s dream. Infirmity had hitherto so
hedged her about, that she deemed herself forever protected from all
assaults of love. Indeed, she felt only injured that a fellow-poet
should take advantage, as it were, of her indulgence in granting him
an interview, and requested him to withdraw from her presence, not
attempting any response to his proposal, which she could not believe in
earnest. Of course he withdrew from her sight, but not to withdraw the
offer of his heart and hand; _au contraire_, to repeat it by letter,
and in such wise as to convince her how “dead in earnest” he was. Her
own heart, touched already when she knew it not, was this time fain to
listen, be convinced, and overcome. But here began the “tug of war.”
As a filial daughter, Elizabeth told her father of the poet’s love,
of the poet’s love in return, and asked a parent’s blessing to crown
their happiness. At first, incredulous of the strange story, he mocked
her; but when the truth flashed on him, from the new fire in her eyes,
he kindled with rage, and forbade her ever seeing or communicating
with her lover again, on the penalty of disinheritance and banishment
forever from a father’s love. This decision was founded on no dislike
for Mr. Browning personally, or anything in him, or his family; it was
simply arbitrary. But the new love was stronger than the old in her--it
conquered. On wings it flew to her beloved, who had perched on her
window, and thence bore her away from the fogs of England to a nest
under Italian skies. The nightingale who had long sung in the dark,
with “her breast against a thorne,” now changed into a lark--morning
had come--singing for very joy, and at heaven’s gate, which has since
opened to let her in.
[Sidenote: An unreasonable father.]
The unnatural father kept his vow, and would never be reconciled to
his daughter, of whom he was not worthy; though she ceased not her
endearing efforts to find her way to his heart again; ever fearing that
he, or she, might die without the bond of forgiveness having reunited
them. Always cherishing an undiminished love for her only parent, this
banishment from him wore on her, notwithstanding the rich compensation
of such a husband’s devotion, and the new maternal love which their
golden-haired boy awakened. What she feared came upon her. Her father
died without leaving her even his pardon, and her feeble _physique_
never quite recovered from the shock. Few witnessed the strong grief of
that morally strong woman. I saw her after her first wrestling with
the angel of sorrow, and perceived that with the calm token of his
blessing, still she dragged a maimed life.
ELIZABETH C. KINNEY: ‘A Day with the Brownings at Patrolino,’ in
_Scribner’s Magazine_, now _The Century_, December, 1870.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Her death.]
A life of suffering ended in peace. A frail body, bearing the burden
of too great a brain, broke at last under the weight. After six days’
illness, the shadows of the night fell upon her eyes for the last time,
and half an hour after daybreak she beheld the Eternal Vision. Like the
pilgrim in the dream, she saw the heavenly glory before passing through
the gate. “It is beautiful!” she exclaimed, and died; sealing these
last words upon her lips as the fittest inscription that could ever
be written upon her life, her genius, and her memory. In the English
burial-ground at Florence lie her ashes.
THEODORE TILTON: _Memorial Preface_ to ‘Last Poems of Mrs. Browning.’
* * * * *
The memory and career of Elizabeth Barrett Browning appear to us like
some beautiful ideal. Nothing is earthly, though all is human; a spirit
is passing before our eyes, yet of like passions with ourselves, and
encased in a frame so delicate that every fibre is alive with feeling
and tremulous with radiant thought. Her genius certainly may be
compared to those sensitive, palpitating flames, which harmonically
rise and fall in response to every sound-vibration near them. Her whole
being was rhythmic, and, in a time when art is largely valued for
itself alone, her utterances were the expression of her inmost soul.
E. C. STEDMAN: ‘Victorian Poets.’
FOOTNOTES:
[4] ‘Victorian Poets,’ by E. C. Stedman.
[5] Miss Mitford writes in 1851.
[6] Mr. Tilton writes in 1862.
MARGARET FULLER (OSSOLI).
1810-1850.
MARGARET FULLER (OSSOLI).
Sarah Margaret Fuller was born at Cambridgeport, Mass., May 23,
1810. She was the eldest child of Timothy Fuller, “a lawyer and a
politician,” and Margaret Crane his wife. Her education was begun at
home by her father, a somewhat severe teacher. In an autobiographical
fragment she relates the influence upon her young mind of the study
of the Latin language and of Roman history, and of her readings in
Shakespeare, Cervantes, and Molière. Another formative influence was
her romantic attachment to a beautiful and accomplished English lady
who spent a few months in the neighborhood, and whose companionship
lifted her, she says, “into just that atmosphere of European life
to which I had before been tending.” When about thirteen years old,
Margaret was sent to the boarding-school of the Misses Preston, in
Groton, Mass., where she remained until 1825. It is stated that she
was at one time a pupil in Dr. Park’s Boston school. That she was an
indefatigable student, is shown by the record of her reading during the
subsequent years passed at home. Her studies in German were especially
deep.
In the spring of 1833, the family removed from Cambridge to Groton.
Margaret was at this time much occupied in the tuition of the younger
children. In 1835, she made the acquaintance of Miss Martineau, then
travelling in America. Margaret had in this year a severe illness, from
which it was feared that she could not recover. In October, her father
died of cholera. “This death,” says Mrs. Howe, “besides the sorrow and
perplexity which followed it, brought to Margaret a disappointment
which seemed to her to bar the fulfilment of her highest hopes.” It had
been planned that she should visit Europe, making the voyage in the
company of Miss Martineau and the Farrars. It now seemed to her a duty
to remain with her mother, and “not to encroach upon the fund necessary
for the education of her brothers and sisters.” Her undeniable egotism
only throws this act of self-sacrifice into higher relief.
In the autumn of 1836, she left Groton, to take a position in Mr.
Alcott’s school, in Boston, at the same time teaching private classes.
She worked hard this winter, giving instruction in German, Italian,
Latin, and French, and reading with her pupils such books as ‘Faust’
and the ‘Divina Commedia.’ In the spring of 1837, she went to teach
in the Greene Street school, Providence, a salary of $1,000 per annum
being offered her. She remained there two years, doing valuable work,
which added to her reputation; but Mr. Greeley, in his autobiography,
states that she was not remunerated for her services.
In 1839, the Fuller family left Groton for Jamaica Plain, and in
November of the same year returned to Cambridge. In this year was
published Margaret’s translation of Eckerman’s ‘Conversations with
Goethe.’ In 1840, she became the editor of The Dial, which she managed
for two years, receiving $200 the first year, after which her salary
was discontinued on account of the lack of funds. She contributed
to this periodical, besides various critical papers, the article on
_The Great Lawsuit: Man versus Men, Woman versus Women_, which was
afterwards expanded into her WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
It was in the autumn of 1839 that Margaret began her famous Boston
conversations, with a class of twenty-five. These classes were renewed
in November of each year until 1844.
In 1841, she translated the ‘Letters of Gunderode and Bettine,’ but
their publication does not appear to have been completed. In 1843, a
trip to Lake Superior furnished her with material for her _Summer on
the Lakes_, originally published in The Dial. A general impression
exists that Miss Fuller connected herself with the Brook Farm
experiment. It is an error; she was a visitor, not a resident, at Brook
Farm.
In 1844, Margaret went to New York, to live with the Greeleys at Turtle
Bay, becoming a constant contributor to the New York Tribune. In this
year she published WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, and the next,
collected her _Papers on Art and Literature_ in a volume.
On the 1st of August, 1846, Margaret Fuller sailed for Europe, in the
company of her friends Mr. and Mrs. Marcus Spring, of Eagleswood, New
Jersey. She went first to England, visited the Lake country, meeting
Wordsworth and renewing her acquaintance with Harriet Martineau,
travelled in Scotland, making the ascent of Ben Lomond with but one
companion, and without a guide, an imprudence which cost her a night of
dangerous exposure; returned to London, where she met Joanna Baillie,
the Carlyles, and Mazzini; and went thence to Paris. There she saw
George Sand, Chopin, and Rachel. She proceeded to Lyons, to Avignon,
“where she waded through the snow to visit the tomb of Laura,” and to
Marseilles, whence she sailed for Genoa, going next to Naples and to
Rome. It was during this first stay in Rome, in the spring of 1847,
that she became acquainted with the Marquis Ossoli, an officer of the
Civic Guard. She continued her travels, visiting Florence, Ravenna,
Venice, Milan, the Italian Lakes, and Switzerland. She returned to
Rome in October, 1847. In December she was married to Ossoli; but for
reasons involving the security of his paternal inheritance, it was
agreed that the marriage should be a secret. In the following May,
Margaret left Rome for the summer, passing a month at Aquila, and the
rest of the time, until November, at Rieti, where it was possible for
her husband to visit her occasionally. In September, 1848, their son,
“Angiolino,” was born. In November, Margaret found it necessary to go
to Rome, “to be near her husband, and also in order to be able to carry
on the literary work upon which depended not only her own support,
but also that of her child.” The little Angelo was left in the care
of his Italian nurse. His mother at first anticipated an absence of
a month only. She indeed returned to Rieti for a week in December,
but “circumstances were too strong for her, and she was forced to
remain three months in Rome without seeing him,” lying awake at night,
studying to end this cruel separation. She was again in Rieti in March,
and in April returned to Rome. And now began the siege of Rome by the
French, and the mother, shut up in the city, saw her child no more
until the summer.
Margaret took charge of one of the hospitals during the siege. To the
writer, this period appears the noblest of her life. The formation of
the strongest human ties had immeasurably deepened and softened her
nature. She moved among the wounded and dying soldiers like the “Court
Lady” of Mrs. Browning’s poem. She learned all the horror of wounds and
death. She insisted on going with Ossoli to his post on the night when
an attack was expected in that quarter; and meeting at the Angelus,
they passed together to the supposed danger as to a religious service.
During the days of suspense, Margaret made her secret known to her
friends in Rome. As soon as the siege was ended, the father and mother
hastened to Rieti, to find their child neglected and almost dying.
They nursed him back to life and health, and the three passed together
one happy winter in Florence, clouded only by pecuniary anxieties--for
Ossoli had, by his patriotism, lost all. Margaret’s literary work at
this time was a _History of the Revolution in Italy_, which perished
with her.
Margaret, Ossoli, and the little Angelo sailed for America on May
17, 1850, in the barque Elizabeth, Captain Hasty. On the voyage the
captain died of small-pox; Angelo took the disease, but recovered.
On the morning of July 19th, the Elizabeth was wrecked in a sudden
storm, striking on Fire Island beach. The sea never gave back Margaret
and Ossoli. The baby Angelo was washed ashore, and lies buried at Mt.
Auburn.
Margaret’s works, collected after her death, are in four volumes:
WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY; _Art, Literature, and the Drama_;
_Abroad and at Home_, and _Life Without and Life Within_.
A remarkable estimate of Margaret, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, published,
among other extracts from his papers, by his son, has lately attracted
much attention. The testimony of Hawthorne as to Margaret’s Italian
life, of which he had no personal knowledge, has little value. But the
conclusions of so keen a mind as to her character cannot be so easily
dismissed; and this passage has been included among our extracts,
that both sides of the shield may be seen. Certain of Hawthorne’s
expressions go far to confirm the popular belief that Margaret’s
character, as he saw it, furnished him with the hint or starting-point
for his creation of Zenobia in ‘The Blithedale Romance.’
Lowell, in his stinging lines on Miranda, in ‘A Fable for Critics,’
speaks of her, “I-turn-the-crank-of-the-universe air,” and pronounces
that “the whole of her being’s a capital I.” She is too often
remembered thus, and only thus. Let us also picture her ministering in
that “house of misery” where,--to quote lines written of another famous
woman,--
“Slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.”
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Her early training.]
[Sidenote: Premature development.]
[Sidenote: Spectral illusions.]
[Sidenote: Somnambulism.]
My father instructed me himself. The effect of this was so far
good that, not passing through the hands of many ignorant and weak
persons, as so many do at preparatory schools, I was put at once under
discipline of considerable severity, and, at the same time, had a
more than ordinarily high standard presented to me. My father was a
man of business, even in literature; he had been a high scholar at
college, and was warmly attached to all he had learned there, both
from the pleasure he had derived in the exercise of his faculties and
the associated memories of success and good repute. He was, beside,
well read in French literature, and in English, a Queen Anne’s man. He
hoped to make me the heir of all he knew, and of as much more as the
income of his profession enabled him to give me means of acquiring. At
the very beginning, he made one great mistake, more common, it is to
be hoped, in the last generation, than the warning of physiologists
will permit it to be with the next. He thought to gain time by bringing
forward the intellect as early as possible. Thus, I had tasks given me,
as many and various as the hours would allow, and on subjects beyond
my age; with the additional disadvantage of reciting to him in the
evening, after he returned from his office. As he was subject to many
interruptions, I was often kept up till very late; and as he was a
severe teacher, both from his habits of mind and his ambition for me,
my feelings were kept on the stretch till the recitations were over.
Thus, frequently I was sent to bed several hours too late, with nerves
unnaturally stimulated. The consequence was a premature development
of the brain, that made me a “youthful prodigy” by day, and by night
a victim of spectral illusions, nightmare, and somnambulism, which,
at the time, prevented the harmonious development of my bodily powers
and checked my growth, while, later, they induced continual headache,
weakness, and nervous affections of all kinds. As these again reacted
on the brain, giving undue force to every thought and every feeling,
there was finally produced a state of being both too active and too
intense, which wasted my constitution.... No one understood this
subject of health then. No one knew why this child, already kept up
so late, was still unwilling to retire. My aunts cried out upon the
“spoiled child, the most unreasonable child that ever was--if brother
could but open his eyes to see it--who was never willing to go to bed.”
They did not know that, so soon as the light was taken away, she seemed
to see colossal faces advancing slowly towards her, the eyes dilating,
and each feature swelling loathsomely as they come, till at last, when
they were about to close upon her, she started up with a shriek which
drove them away, but only to return when she lay down again.... No
wonder the child arose and walked in her sleep, moaning all over the
house, till once, when they heard her, and came and waked her, and
she told what she had dreamed, her father sharply bid her “leave off
thinking of such nonsense, or she would be crazy,” never knowing that
he was himself the cause of all these horrors of the night.
[Sidenote: Latin at six.]
I was taught Latin and English grammar at the same time, and began to
read Latin at six years old, after which, for some years, I read it
daily.
[Sidenote: Influence of her father’s character.]
[My father] demanded accuracy and clearness in everything.... Trained
to great dexterity in artificial methods, accurate, ready, with entire
command of his resources, he had no belief in minds that listen, wait,
and receive. He had no conception of the subtle and indirect motions
of imagination and feeling. His influence on me was great, and opposed
to the natural unfolding of my character, which was fervent, of strong
grasp, and disposed to infatuation and self-forgetfulness.
[Sidenote: Her first taste of Shakespeare.]
Ever memorable is the day on which I first took a volume of Shakespeare
in my hand to read. It was on a Sunday. This day was particularly set
apart in our house.... This Sunday--I was only eight years old--I
took from the book-shelf a volume lettered Shakespeare. It was not
the first time I had looked at it, but before I had been deterred
from attempting to read, by the broken appearance along the page, and
preferred smooth narrative. But this time I held in my hand ‘Romeo and
Juliet’ long enough to get my eye fastened to the page. It was a cold
winter afternoon. I took the book to the parlor fire, and had there
been seated an hour or two, when my father looked up and asked what
I was reading so intently. “Shakespeare,” replied the child, merely
raising her eye from the page. “‘Shakespeare’! That won’t do; that’s
no book for Sunday; go put it away and take another.” I went as I was
bid, but took no other. Returning to my seat, the unfinished story,
the personages to whom I was but just introduced, thronged and burnt
my brain. I could not bear it long; such a lure it was impossible to
resist. I went and brought the book again. There were several guests
present, and I had got half through the play before I again attracted
attention. “What is that child about that she doesn’t hear a word
that’s said to her?” quoth my aunt. “What are you reading?” said my
father. “Shakespeare,” was again the reply, in a clear though somewhat
impatient tone. “How?” said my father angrily; then, restraining
himself before his guests, “Give me the book and go directly to bed.”
[Sidenote: Home of the Fullers.]
[Sidenote: Margaret in the garden.]
Our house, though comfortable, was very ugly, and in a neighborhood
which I detested, every dwelling and its appurtenances having a
_mesquin_ and huddled look. I liked nothing about us except the tall
graceful elms before the house, and the dear little garden behind.
Our back-door opened on a high flight of steps, by which I went down
to a green plot, much injured in my ambitious eyes by the presence of
the pump and tool-house. This opened into a little garden, full of
choice flowers and fruit trees, which was my mother’s delight and was
carefully kept. Here I felt at home. A gate opened thence into the
fields, a wooden gate made of boards, in a high unpainted board wall,
and embowered in the clematis creeper. This gate I used to open to see
the sunset heaven; beyond this black frame I did not step, for I liked
to look at the deep gold behind it. How exquisitely happy I was in its
beauty, and how I loved the silvery wreaths of my protecting vine! I
never would pluck one of its flowers at that time, I was so jealous of
its beauty, but often since I carry off wreaths of it from the wild
wood, and it stands in nature to my mind as the emblem of domestic love.
MARGARET FULLER: _Autobiographical Romance_ published in ‘Memoirs of
Margaret Fuller Ossoli,’ by R. W. Emerson, W. H. Channing and J. F.
Clarke. Boston: Roberts Bros., 1874.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Margaret at thirteen.]
My acquaintance with Margaret commenced in the year 1823, at
Cambridge.... Margaret was then about thirteen,--a child in years, but
so precocious in her mental and physical development, that she passed
for eighteen or twenty. Agreeably to this estimate she had her place in
society as a lady full-grown.
[Sidenote: Personal appearance.]
[Sidenote: A characteristic trait.]
When I recall her personal appearance, as it was then and for ten
or twelve years subsequent to this, I have the idea of a blooming
girl of a florid complexion and vigorous health, with a tendency to
robustness, of which she was painfully conscious, and which, with
little regard to hygienic principles, she endeavored to suppress or
conceal, thereby preparing for herself much future suffering. With
no pretensions to beauty then, or at any time, her face was one that
attracted, that awakened a lively interest, that made one desirous of a
nearer acquaintance. It was a face that fascinated, without satisfying.
Never seen in repose, never allowing a steady perusal of its features,
it baffled every attempt to judge the character by physiognomical
induction. I said she had no pretentions to beauty. Yet she was not
plain. She escaped the reproach of positive plainness, by her blonde
and abundant hair, by her excellent teeth, by her sparkling, dancing,
busy eyes, though usually half closed from near-sightedness, shot
piercing glances at those with whom she conversed, and, most of all,
by the very peculiar and graceful carriage of her head and neck, which
all who knew her will remember as the most characteristic trait in her
personal appearance.
[Sidenote: Conversation.]