Meanwhile many poor people are driven from their homes, and provisions

are growing very dear. The heats are now terrible for us, and must be

far more so for the French. It is said a vast number are ill of fever;

indeed, it cannot be otherwise. Oudinot himself has it, and perhaps

this is one explanation of the mixture of violence and weakness in his

actions.

He must be deeply ashamed at the poor result of his bad acts,--that at

the end of two weeks and so much bravado, he has done nothing to Rome,

unless intercept provisions, kill some of her brave youth, and

injure churches, which should be sacred to him as to us. St. Maria

Trastevere, that ancient church, so full of precious remains, and

which had an air of mild repose more beautiful than almost any other,

is said to have suffered particularly.

As to the men who die, I share the impassioned sorrow of the

Triumvirs. "O Frenchmen!" they wrote, "could you know what men you

destroy! _They_ are no mercenaries, like those who fill your ranks,

but the flower of the Italian youth, and the noblest among the aged.

When you shall know of what minds you have robbed the world, how ought

you to repent and mourn!"

This is especially true of the Emigrant and Garibaldi legions. The

misfortunes of Northern and Southern Italy, the conscription which

compels to the service of tyranny those who remain, has driven from

the kingdom of Naples and from Lombardy all the brave and noble youth.

Many are in Venice or Rome, the forlorn hope of Italy. Radetzky,

every day more cruel, now impresses aged men and the fathers of large

families. He carries them with him in chains, determined, if he cannot

have good troops to send into Hungary, at least to revenge himself on

the unhappy Lombards.

Many of these young men, students from Pisa, Pavia, Padua, and the

Roman University, lie wounded in the hospitals, for naturally they

rushed first to the combat. One kissed an arm which was cut off;

another preserves pieces of bone which were painfully extracted from

his wound, as relics of the best days of his life. The older men, many

of whom have been saddened by exile and disappointment, less glowing,

are not less resolved. A spirit burns noble as ever animated the most

precious deeds we treasure from the heroic age. I suffer to see these

temples of the soul thus broken, to see the fever-weary days and

painful operations undergone by these noble men, these true priests of

a higher hope; but I would not, for much, have missed seeing it

all. The memory of it will console amid the spectacles of meanness,

selfishness, and faithlessness which life may yet have in store for

the pilgrim.

June 23.

Matters verge to a crisis. The French government sustains Oudinot and

disclaims Lesseps. Harmonious throughout, shameless in falsehood, it

seems Oudinot knew that tire mission of Lesseps was at an end, when

he availed himself of his pacific promises to occupy Monte Mario.

When the Romans were anxious at seeing French troops move in that

direction, Lesseps said it was only done to occupy them, and conjured

the Romans to avoid all collision which might prevent his success

with the treaty. The sham treaty was concluded on the 30th of May, a

detachment of French having occupied Monte Mario on the night of the

29th. Oudinot flies into a rage and refuses to sign; M. Lesseps goes

off to Paris; meanwhile, the brave Oudinot attacks on the 3d of June,

after writing to the French Consul that Ire should not till the 4th,

to leave time for the foreigners remaining to retire. He attacked in

the night, possessing himself of Villa Pamfili, as he had of Monte

Mario, by treachery and surprise.

Meanwhile, M. Lesseps arrives in Paris, to find himself seemingly or

really in great disgrace with the would-be Emperor and his cabinet. To

give reason for this, M. Drouyn de Lhuys, who had publicly declared

to the Assembly that M. Lesseps had no instructions except from the

report of the sitting of the 7th of May, shamefully publishes a

letter of special instructions, hemming him in on every side, which M.

Lesseps, the "Plenipotentiary," dares not disown.

What are we to think of a great nation, whose leading men are such

barefaced liars? M. Guizot finds his creed faithfully followed up.

The liberal party in France does what it can to wash its hands of this

offence, but it seems weak, and unlikely to render effectual service

at this crisis. Venice, Rome, Ancona, are the last strong-holds of

hope, and they cannot stand for ever thus unsustained. Night before

last, a tremendous cannonade left no moment to sleep, even had the

anxious hearts of mothers and wives been able to crave it. At morning

a little detachment of French had entered by the breach of St.

Pancrazio, and intrenched itself in a vineyard. Another has possession

of Villa Poniatowski, close to the Porta del Popolo, and attacks

and alarms are hourly to be expected. I long to see the final one,

dreadful as that hour may be, since now there seems no hope from

delay. Men are daily slain, and this state of suspense is agonizing.

In the evening 'tis pretty, though terrible, to see the bombs, fiery

meteors, springing from the horizon line upon their bright path, to do

their wicked message. 'T would not be so bad, methinks, to die by one

of these, as wait to have every drop of pure blood, every childlike

radiant hope, drained and driven from the heart by the betrayals of

nations and of individuals, till at last the sickened eyes refuse more

to open to that light which shines daily on such pits of iniquity.

LETTER XXXIII.

SIEGE OF ROME.--HEAT.--NIGHT ATTACKS.--THE BOMBARDMENT.--THE

NIGHT BREACH.--DEFECTION.--ENTRY OF THE FRENCH.--SLAUGHTER OF

THE ROMANS.--THE HOSPITALS.--DESTRUCTION BY BOMBS.--CESSATION OF

RESISTANCE.--OUDINOT'S STUBBORNNESS.--GARIBALDI'S TROOPS.--THEIR

MUSTER ON THE SCENE OF RIENZI'S TRIUMPH.--GARIBALDI.--HIS

DEPARTURE.--"RESPECTABLE" OPINION.--THE PROTECTORS UNMASKED.--COLD

RECEPTION.--A PRIEST ASSASSINATED.--MARTIAL LAW DECLARED.--REPUBLICAN

EDUCATION.--DISAPPEARANCE OF FRENCH SOLDIERS.--CLEARING THE

HOSPITALS.--PRIESTLY BASENESS.--INSULT TO THE AMERICAN CONSUL.--HIS

PROTEST AND DEPARTURE.--DISARMING THE NATIONAL GUARD.--POSITION OF MR.

CASS.--PETTY OPPRESSION.--EXPULSION OF FOREIGNERS.--EFFECT OF

FRENCH PRESENCE.--ADDRESS TO THE PEOPLE.--VISIT TO THE SCENE OF

STRIFE.--AMERICAN SYMPATHY FOR LIBERTY IN EUROPE.

Rome, July 6, 1849.

If I mistake not, I closed my last letter just as the news arrived

here that the attempt of the democratic party in France to resist the

infamous proceedings of the government had failed, and thus Rome, as

far as human calculation went, had not a hope for her liberties left.

An inland city cannot long sustain a siege when there is no hope of

aid. Then followed the news of the surrender of Ancona, and Rome

found herself alone; for, though Venice continued to hold out, all

communication was cut off.

The Republican troops, almost to a man, left Ancona, but a long march

separated them from Rome.

The extreme heat of these days was far more fatal to the Romans than

to their assailants, for as fast as the French troops sickened, their

place was taken by fresh arrivals. Ours also not only sustained the

exhausting service by day, but were harassed at night by attacks,

feigned or real. These commonly began about eleven or twelve o'clock

at night, just when all who meant to rest were fairly asleep. I can

imagine the harassing effect upon the troops, from what I feel in

my sheltered pavilion, in consequence of not knowing a quiet night's

sleep for a month.

The bombardment became constantly more serious. The house where I live

was filled as early as the 20th with persons obliged to fly from the

Piazza di Gesu, where the fiery rain fell thickest. The night of the

21st-22d, we were all alarmed about two o'clock, A.M. by a tremendous

cannonade. It was the moment when the breach was finally made by which

the French entered. They rushed in, and I grieve to say, that, by the

only instance of defection known in the course of the siege, those

companies of the regiment Union which had in charge a position on

that point yielded to panic and abandoned it. The French immediately

entered and intrenched themselves. That was the fatal hour for the

city. Every day afterward, though obstinately resisted, the enemy

gained, till at last, their cannon being well placed, the city was

entirely commanded from the Janiculum, and all thought of further

resistance was idle.

It was true policy to avoid a street-fight, in which the Italian,

an unpractised soldier, but full of feeling and sustained from the

houses, would have been a match even for their disciplined troops.

After the 22d of June, the slaughter of the Romans became every day

more fearful. Their defences were knocked down by the heavy cannon

of the French, and, entirely exposed in their valorous onsets,

great numbers perished on the spot. Those who were brought into the

hospitals were generally grievously wounded, very commonly subjects

for amputation. My heart bled daily more and more at these sights, and

I could not feel much for myself, though now the balls and bombs began

to fall round me also. The night of the 28th the effect was truly

fearful, as they whizzed and burst near me. As many as thirty fell

upon or near the Hotel de Russie, where Mr. Cass has his temporary

abode. The roof of the studio in the pavilion, tenanted by Mr.

Stermer, well known to the visitors of Rome for his highly-finished

cabinet pictures, was torn to pieces. I sat alone in my much exposed

apartment, thinking, "If one strikes me, I only hope it will kill

me at once, and that God will transport my soul to some sphere where

virtue and love are not tyrannized over by egotism and brute force,

as in this." However, that night passed; the next, we had reason to

expect a still more fiery salute toward the Pincian, as here alone

remained three or four pieces of cannon which could be used. But on

the morning of the 30th, in a contest at the foot of the Janiculum,

the line, old Papal troops, naturally not in earnest like the free

corps, refused to fight against odds so terrible. The heroic Marina

fell, with hundreds of his devoted Lombards. Garibaldi saw his best

officers perish, and himself went in the afternoon to say to the

Assembly that further resistance was unavailing.

The Assembly sent to Oudinot, but he refused any conditions,--refused

even to guarantee a safe departure to Garibaldi, his brave foe.

Notwithstanding, a great number of men left the other regiments

to follow the leader whose courage had captivated them, and whose

superiority over difficulties commanded their entire confidence.

Toward the evening of Monday, the 2d of July, it was known that the

French were preparing to cross the river and take possession of all

the city. I went into the Corso with some friends; it was filled with

citizens and military. The carriage was stopped by the crowd near the

Doria palace; the lancers of Garibaldi galloped along in full career.

I longed for Sir Walter Scott to be on earth again, and see them; all

are light, athletic, resolute figures, many of the forms of the finest

manly beauty of the South, all sparkling with its genius and ennobled

by the resolute spirit, ready to dare, to do, to die. We followed

them to the piazza of St. John Lateran. Never have I seen a sight

so beautiful, so romantic, and so sad. Whoever knows Rome knows the

peculiar solemn grandeur of that piazza, scene of the first triumph of

Rienzi, and whence may be seen the magnificence of the "mother of all

churches," the baptistery with its porphyry columns, the Santa Scala

with its glittering mosaics of the early ages, the obelisk standing

fairest of any of those most imposing monuments of Rome, the view

through the gates of the Campagna, on that side so richly strewn with

ruins. The sun was setting, the crescent moon rising, the flower of

the Italian youth were marshalling in that solemn place. They had been

driven from every other spot where they had offered their hearts as

bulwarks of Italian independence; in this last strong-hold they had

sacrificed hecatombs of their best and bravest in that cause; they

must now go or remain prisoners and slaves. _Where_ go, they knew not;

for except distant Hungary there is not now a spot which would receive

them, or where they can act as honor commands. They had all put on

the beautiful dress of the Garibaldi legion, the tunic of bright red

cloth, the Greek cap, or else round hat with Puritan plume. Their long

hair was blown back from resolute faces; all looked full of courage.

They had counted the cost before they entered on this perilous

struggle; they had weighed life and all its material advantages

against liberty, and made their election; they turned not back, nor

flinched, at this bitter crisis. I saw the wounded, all that could go,

laden upon their baggage cars; some were already pale and fainting,

still they wished to go. I saw many youths, born to rich inheritance,

carrying in a handkerchief all their worldly goods. The women were

ready; their eyes too were resolved, if sad. The wife of Garibaldi

followed him on horseback. He himself was distinguished by the white

tunic; his look was entirely that of a hero of the Middle Ages,--his

face still young, for the excitements of his life, though so many,

have all been youthful, and there is no fatigue upon his brow or

cheek. Fall or stand, one sees in him a man engaged in the career for

which he is adapted by nature. He went upon the parapet, and looked

upon the road with a spy-glass, and, no obstruction being in sight, he

turned his face for a moment back upon Rome, then led the way through

the gate. Hard was the heart, stony and seared the eye, that had no

tear for that moment. Go, fated, gallant band! and if God care not

indeed for men as for the sparrows, most of ye go forth to perish. And

Rome, anew the Niobe! Must she lose also these beautiful and brave,

that promised her regeneration, and would have given it, but for the

perfidy, the overpowering force, of the foreign intervention?

I know that many "respectable" gentlemen would be surprised to hear me

speak in this way. Gentlemen who perform their "duties to society" by

buying for themselves handsome clothes and furniture with the interest

of their money, speak of Garibaldi and his men as "brigands" and

"vagabonds." Such are they, doubtless, in the same sense as Jesus,

Moses, and Eneas were. To me, men who can throw so lightly aside the

ease of wealth, the joys of affection, for the sake of what they deem

honor, in whatsoever form, are the "respectable." No doubt there are

in these bands a number of men of lawless minds, and who follow this

banner only because there is for them no other path. But the

greater part are the noble youths who have fled from the Austrian

conscription, or fly now from the renewal of the Papal suffocation,

darkened by French protection.

As for the protectors, they entirely threw aside the mask, as it was

always supposed they would, the moment they had possession of Rome. I

do not know whether they were really so bewildered by their priestly

counsellors as to imagine they would be well received in a city which

they had bombarded, and where twelve hundred men were lying wounded

by their assault. To say nothing of the justice or injustice of the

matter, it could not be supposed that the Roman people, if it had any

sense of dignity, would welcome them. I did not appear in the street,

as I would not give any countenance to such a wrong; but an English

lady, my friend, told me they seemed to look expectingly for the

strong party of friends they had always pretended to have within the

walls. The French officers looked up to the windows for ladies, and,

she being the only one they saw, saluted her. She made no reply. They

then passed into the Corso. Many were assembled, the softer

Romans being unable to control a curiosity the Milanese would have

disclaimed, but preserving an icy silence. In an evil hour, a foolish

priest dared to break it by the cry of _Viva Pio Nono!_ The populace,

roused to fury, rushed on him with their knives. He was much wounded;

one or two others were killed in the rush. The people howled then, and

hissed at the French, who, advancing their bayonets, and clearing the

way before them, fortified themselves in the piazzas. Next day the

French troops were marched to and fro through Rome, to inspire awe in

the people; but it has only created a disgust amounting to loathing,

to see that, with such an imposing force, and in great part fresh, the

French were not ashamed to use bombs also, and kill women and children

in their beds. Oudinot then, seeing the feeling of the people, and

finding they pursued as a spy any man who so much as showed the way

to his soldiers,--that the Italians went out of the cafés if Frenchmen

entered,--in short, that the people regarded him and his followers in

the same light as the Austrians,--has declared martial law in Rome;

the press is stifled; everybody is to be in the house at half past

nine o'clock in the evening, and whoever in any way insults his men,

or puts any obstacle in their way, is to be shot.

The fruits of all this will be the same as elsewhere; temporary

repression will sow the seeds of perpetual resistance; and never

was Rome in so fair a way to be educated for a republican form of

government as now.

Especially could nothing be more irritating to an Italian population,

in the month of July, than to drive them to their homes at half past

nine. After the insupportable heat of the day, their only enjoyment

and refreshment are found in evening walks, and chats together as they

sit before their cafés, or in groups outside some friendly door. Now

they must hurry home when the drum beats at nine o'clock. They are

forbidden to stand or sit in groups, and this by their bombarding

_protector!_ Comment is unnecessary.

French soldiers are daily missing; of some it is known that they have

been killed by the Trasteverini for daring to make court to their

women. Of more than a hundred and fifty, it is only known that they

cannot he found; and in two days of French "order" more acts

of violence have been committed, than in two months under the

Triumvirate.

The French have taken up their quarters in the court-yards of the

Quirinal and Venetian palaces, which are full of the wounded, many

of whom have been driven well-nigh mad, and their burning wounds

exasperated, by the sound of the drums and trumpets,--the constant

sense of an insulting presence. The wounded have been warned to leave

the Quirinal at the end of eight days, though there are many who

cannot be moved from bed to bed without causing them great anguish

and peril; nor is it known that any other place has been provided as a

hospital for them. At the Palazzo di Venezia the French have searched

for three emigrants whom they wished to imprison, even in the

apartments where the wounded were lying, running their bayonets into

the mattresses. They have taken for themselves beds given by the

Romans to the hospital,--not public property, but private gift. The

hospital of Santo Spirito was a governmental establishment, and, in

using a part of it for the wounded, its director had been retained,

because he had the reputation of being honest and not illiberal. But

as soon as the French entered, he, with true priestly baseness, sent

away the women nurses, saying he had no longer money to pay them,

transported the wounded into a miserable, airless basement, that had

before been used as a granary, and appropriated the good apartments to

the use of the French!

July 8.

The report of this morning is that the French yesterday violated the

domicile of our Consul, Mr. Brown, pretending to search for persons

hidden there; that Mr. Brown, banner in one hand and sword in the

other, repelled the assault, and fairly drove them down stairs; that

then he made them an appropriate speech, though in a mixed language of

English, French, and Italian; that the crowd vehemently applauded Mr.

Brown, who already was much liked for the warm sympathy he had shown

the Romans in their aspirations and their distresses; and that he then

donned his uniform, and went to Oudinot to make his protest. How this

was received I know not, but understand Mr. Brown departed with his

family yesterday evening. Will America look as coldly on the insult to

herself, as she has on the struggle of this injured people?

To-day an edict is out to disarm the National Guard. The generous

"protectors" wish to take all the trouble upon themselves. Rome is

full of them; at every step are met groups in the uniform of France,

with faces bronzed in the African war, and so stultified by a life

without enthusiasm and without thought, that I do not believe

Napoleon would recognize them as French soldiers. The effect of their

appearance compared with that of the Italian free corps is that of

body as compared with spirit. It is easy to see how they could be used

to purposes so contrary to the legitimate policy of France, for they

do not look more intellectual, more fitted to have opinions of their

own, than the Austrian soldiery.

July 10.

The plot thickens. The exact facts with regard to the invasion of Mr.

Brown's house I have not been able to ascertain. I suppose they will

be published, as Oudinot has promised to satisfy Mr. Cass. I must

add, in reference to what I wrote some time ago of the position of our

Envoy here, that the kind and sympathetic course of Mr. Cass toward

the Republicans in these troubles, his very gentlemanly and courteous

bearing, have from the minds of most removed all unpleasant feelings.

They see that his position was very peculiar,--sent to the Papal

government, finding here the Republican, and just at that moment

violently assailed. Unless he had extraordinary powers, he naturally

felt obliged to communicate further with our government before

acknowledging this. I shall always regret, however, that he did

not stand free to occupy the high position that belonged to the

representative of the United States at that moment, and peculiarly

because it was by a republic that the Roman Republic was betrayed.

But, as I say, the plot thickens. Yesterday three families were

carried to prison because a boy crowed like a cock at the French

soldiery from the windows of the house they occupied. Another, because

a man pursued took refuge in their court-yard. At the same time, the

city being mostly disarmed, came the edict to take down the insignia

of the Republic, "emblems of anarchy." But worst of all they have done

is an edict commanding all foreigners who had been in the service of

the Republican government to leave Rome within twenty-four hours. This

is the most infamous thing done yet, as it drives to desperation those

who stayed because they had so many to go with and no place to go

to, or because their relatives lie wounded here: no others wished to

remain in Rome under present circumstances.

I am sick of breathing the same air with men capable of a part so

utterly cruel and false. As soon as I can, I shall take refuge in the

mountains, if it be possible to find an obscure nook unpervaded by

these convulsions. Let not my friends be surprised if they do not hear

from me for some time. I may not feel like writing. I have seen too

much sorrow, and, alas! without power to aid. It makes me sick to see

the palaces and streets of Rome full of these infamous foreigners, and

to note the already changed aspect of her population. The men of Rome

had begun, filled with new hopes, to develop unknown energy,--they

walked quick, their eyes sparkled, they delighted in duty, in

responsibility; in a year of such life their effeminacy would have

been vanquished. Now, dejectedly, unemployed, they lounge along the

streets, feeling that all the implements of labor, all the ensigns of

hope, have been snatched from them. Their hands fall slack, their eyes

rove aimless, the beggars begin to swarm again, and the black ravens

who delight in the night of ignorance, the slumber of sloth, as the

only sureties for their rule, emerge daily more and more frequent from

their hiding-places.

The following Address has been circulated from hand to hand.

"TO THE PEOPLE OF ROME.

"Misfortune, brothers, has fallen upon us anew. But it is trial of

brief duration,--it is the stone of the sepulchre which we shall throw

away after three days, rising victorious and renewed, an immortal

nation. For with us are God and Justice,--God and Justice, who cannot

die, but always triumph, while kings and popes, once dead, revive no

more.

"As you have been great in the combat, be so in the days of

sorrow,--great in your conduct as citizens, by generous disdain, by

sublime silence. Silence is the weapon we have now to use against the

Cossacks of France and the priests, their masters.

"In the streets do not look at them; do not answer if they address

you.

"In the cafés, in the eating-houses, if they enter, rise and go out.

"Let your windows remain closed as they pass.

"Never attend their feasts, their parades.

"Regard the harmony of their musical bands as tones of slavery, and,

when you hear them, fly.

"Let the liberticide soldier be condemned to isolation; let him atone

in solitude and contempt for having served priests and kings.

"And you, Roman women, masterpiece of God's work! deign no look, no

smile, to those satellites of an abhorred Pope! Cursed be she who,

before the odious satellites of Austria, forgets that she is Italian!

Her name shall be published for the execration of all her people! And

even the courtesans! let them show love for their country, and thus

regain the dignity of citizens!

"And our word of order, our cry of reunion and emancipation, be now

and ever, VIVA LA REPUBLICA!

"This incessant cry, which not even French slaves can dispute,

shall prepare us to administer the bequest of our martyrs, shall be

consoling dew to the immaculate and holy bones that repose, sublime

holocaust of faith and of love, near our walls, and make doubly divine

the Eternal City. In this cry we shall find ourselves always brothers,

and we shall conquer. Viva Rome, the capital of Italy! Viva the Italy

of the people! Viva the Roman Republic!

"A ROMAN.

"Rome, July 4, 1849."

Yes; July 4th, the day so joyously celebrated in our land, is that of

the entrance of the French into Rome!

I know not whether the Romans will follow out this programme with

constancy, as the sterner Milanese have done. If they can, it will

draw upon them endless persecutions, countless exactions, but at once

educate and prove them worthy of a nobler life.

Yesterday I went over the scene of conflict. It was fearful even to

_see_ the Casinos Quattro Venti and Vascello, where the French and

Romans had been several days so near one another, all shattered to

pieces, with fragments of rich stucco and painting still sticking to

rafters between the great holes made by the cannonade, and think

that men had stayed and fought in them when only a mass of ruins.

The French, indeed, were entirely sheltered the last days; to my

unpractised eyes, the extent and thoroughness of their works seemed

miraculous, and gave me the first clear idea of the incompetency of

the Italians to resist organized armies. I saw their commanders had

not even known enough of the art of war to understand how the French

were conducting the siege. It is true, their resources were at any

rate inadequate to resistance; only continual sorties would have

arrested the progress of the foe, and to make them and man the wall

their forces were inadequate. I was struck more than ever by the

heroic valor of _our_ people,--let me so call them now as ever; for

go where I may, a large part of my heart will ever remain in Italy.

I hope her children will always acknowledge me as a sister, though

I drew not my first breath here. A Contadini showed me where

thirty-seven braves are buried beneath a heap of wall that fell upon

them in the shock of one cannonade. A marble nymph, with broken arm,

looked sadly that way from her sun-dried fountain; some roses were

blooming still, some red oleanders, amid the ruin. The sun was casting

its last light on the mountains on the tranquil, sad Campagna,

that sees one leaf more turned in the book of woe. This was in the

Vascello. I then entered the French ground, all mapped and hollowed

like a honeycomb. A pair of skeleton legs protruded from a bank of one

barricade; lower, a dog had scratched away its light covering of

earth from the body of a man, and discovered it lying face upward all

dressed; the dog stood gazing on it with an air of stupid amazement.

I thought at that moment, recalling some letters received: "O men and

women of America, spared these frightful sights, these sudden wrecks

of every hope, what angel of heaven do you suppose has time to listen

to your tales of morbid woe? If any find leisure to work for men

to-day, think you not they have enough to do to care for the victims

here?"

I see you have meetings, where you speak of the Italians, the

Hungarians. I pray you _do something_; let it not end in a mere cry of

sentiment. That is better than to sneer at all that is liberal,

like the English,--than to talk of the holy victims of patriotism as

"anarchists" and "brigands"; but it is not enough. It ought not

to content your consciences. Do you owe no tithe to Heaven for the

privileges it has showered on you, for whose achievement so many

here suffer and perish daily? Deserve to retain them, by helping

your fellow-men to acquire them. Our government must abstain from

interference, but private action is practicable, is due. For Italy,

it is in this moment too late; but all that helps Hungary helps her

also,--helps all who wish the freedom of men from an hereditary yoke

now become intolerable. Send money, send cheer,--acknowledge as the

legitimate leaders and rulers those men who represent the people,

who understand their wants, who are ready to die or to live for their

good. Kossuth I know not, but his people recognize him; Manin I know

not, but with what firm nobleness, what perserving virtue, he has

acted for Venice! Mazzini I know, the man and his acts, great, pure,

and constant,--a man to whom only the next age can do justice, as

it reaps the harvest of the seed he has sown in this. Friends,

countrymen, and lovers of virtue, lovers of freedom, lovers of truth!

be on the alert; rest not supine in your easier lives, but remember

"Mankind is one,

And beats with one great heart."

PART III.

LETTERS FROM ABROAD TO FRIENDS AT HOME.

LETTERS.

FROM A LETTER TO ---- ----.

Bellagio, Lake of Como, August, 1847.

You do not deceive yourself surely about religion, in so far as that

there is a deep meaning in those pangs of our fate which, if we live

by faith, will become our most precious possession. "Live for thy

faith and thou shalt yet behold it living," is with me, as it hath

been, a maxim.

Wherever I turn, I see still the same dark clouds, with occasional

gleams of light. In this Europe how much suffocated life!--a sort of

woe much less seen with us. I know many of the noble exiles, pining

for their natural sphere; many of them seek in Jesus the guide and

friend, as you do. For me, it is my nature to wish to go straight to

the Creative Spirit, and I can fully appreciate what you say of the

need of our happiness depending on no human being. Can you really have

attained such wisdom? Your letter seemed to me very modest and pure,

and I trust in Heaven all may be solid.

I am everywhere well received, and high and low take pleasure in

smoothing my path. I love much the Italians. The lower classes have

the vices induced by long subjection to tyranny; but also a winning

sweetness, a ready and discriminating love for the beautiful, and a

delicacy in the sympathies, the absence of which always made me

sick in our own country. Here, at least, one does not suffer from

obtuseness or indifference. They take pleasure, too, in acts of

kindness; they are bountiful, but it is useless to hope the least

honor in affairs of business. I cannot persuade those who serve me,

however attached, that they should not deceive me, and plunder me.

They think that is part of their duty towards a foreigner. This is

troublesome no less than disagreeable; it is absolutely necessary to

be always on the watch against being cheated.

* * * * *

EXTRACT FROM A LETTER.

One loses sight of all dabbling and pretension when seated at the feet

of dead Rome,--Rome so grand and beautiful upon her bier. Art is dead

here; the few sparkles that sometimes break through the embers cannot

make a flame; but the relics of the past are great enough, over-great;

we should do nothing but sit, and weep, and worship.

In Rome, one has all the free feeling of the country; the city is so

interwoven with vineyards and gardens, such delightful walks in the

villas, such ceaseless music of the fountains, and from every high

point the Campagna and Tiber seem so near.

Full of enchantment has been my summer, passed wholly among Italians,

in places where no foreigner goes, amid the snowy peaks, in the

exquisite valleys of the Abruzzi. I have seen a thousand landscapes,

any one of which might employ the thoughts of the painter for years.

Not without reason the people dream that, at the death of a saint,

columns of light are seen to hover on those mountains. They take, at

sunset, the same rose-hues as the Alps. The torrents are magnificent.

I knew some noblemen, with baronial castles nestled in the hills and

slopes, rich in the artistic treasures of centuries. They liked me,

and showed me the hidden beauties of Roman remains.

* * * * *

Rome, April, 1848.

The gods themselves walk on earth, here in the Italian spring. Day

after day of sunny weather lights up the flowery woods and Arcadian

glades. The fountains, hateful during the endless rains, charm again.

At Castle Turano I found heaths, as large as our pear-trees, in full

flower. Such wealth of beauty is irresistible, but ah! the drama of my

life is very strange: the ship plunges deeper as it rises higher. You

would be amazed, could you know how different is my present phase of

life from that in which you knew me; but you would love me no less; it

is tire same planet that shows such different climes.

* * * * *

TO HER MOTHER.

Rome, November 16, 1848.

I am again in Rome, situated for the first time entirely to my mind.

I have only one room, but large; and everything about the bed

so gracefully and adroitly disposed that it makes a beautiful

parlor,--and of course I pay much less. I have the sun all day, and

an excellent chimney. It is very high, and has pure air and the most

beautiful view all around imaginable. Add, that I am with the dearest,

delightful old couple one can imagine,--quick, prompt, and kind,

sensible and contented. Having no children, they like to regard me and

the Prussian sculptor, my neighbor, as such; yet are too delicate and

too busy ever to intrude. In the attic dwells a priest, who insists on

making my fire when Antonia is away. To be sure, he pays himself for

his trouble by asking a great many questions....

You cannot conceive the enchantment of this place. So much I suffered

here last January and February, I thought myself a little weaned; but

returning, my heart swelled even to tears with the cry of the poet,

"O Rome, _my_ country, city of the soul!"

Those have not lived who have not seen Rome. Warned, however, by the

last winter, I dared not rent my lodgings for the year. I hope I am

acclimated. I have been through what is called the grape-cure, much

more charming, certainly, than the water-cure. At present I am very

well, but, alas! because I have gone to bed early, and done very

little. I do not know if I can maintain any labor. As to my life, I

think it is not the will of Heaven it should terminate very soon. I

have had another strange escape.

I had taken passage in the diligence to come to Rome; two rivers were

to be passed, the Turano and the Tiber, but passed by good bridges,

and a road excellent when not broken unexpectedly by torrents from

the mountains. The diligence sets out between three and four in

the morning, long before light. The director sent me word that

the Marchioness Crispoldi had taken for herself and family a coach

extraordinary, which would start two hours later, and that I could

have a place in that if I liked; so I accepted. The weather had been

beautiful, but on the eve of the day fixed for my departure, the wind

rose, and the rain fell in torrents. I observed that the river, which

passed my window, was much swollen, and rushed with great violence. In

the night I heard its voice still stronger, and felt glad I had not to

set out in the dark. I rose at twilight and was expecting my carriage,

and wondering at its delay, when I heard that the great diligence,

several miles below, had been seized by a torrent; the horses were

up to their necks in water, before any one dreamed of danger. The

postilion called on all the saints, and threw himself into the water.

Tire door of the diligence could not be opened, and tire passengers

forced themselves, one after another, into the cold water; it was dark

too. Had I been there, I had fared ill. A pair of strong men were ill

after it, though all escaped with life.

For several days there was no going to Rome; but at last we set forth

in two great diligences, with all the horses of the route. For many

miles the mountains and ravines were covered with snow; I seemed to

have returned to my own country and climate. Few miles were passed

before the conductor injured his leg under the wheel, and I had the

pain of seeing him suffer all the way, while "Blood of Jesus!" and

"Souls in Purgatory!" was the mildest beginning of an answer to the

jeers of the postilions upon his paleness. We stopped at a miserable

osteria, in whose cellar we found a magnificent relic of Cyclopean

architecture,--as indeed in Italy one is paid at every step for

discomfort and danger, by some precious subject of thought. We

proceeded very slowly, and reached just at night a solitary little

inn which marks the site of the ancient home of the Sabine virgins,

snatched away to become the mothers of Rome. We were there saluted

with, the news that the Tiber also had overflowed its banks, and it

was very doubtful if we could pass. But what else to do? There were no

accommodations in the house for thirty people, or even for three; and

to sleep in the carriages, in that wet air of the marshes, was a more

certain danger than to attempt the passage. So we set forth; the moon,

almost at the full, smiling sadly on the ancient grandeurs half draped

in mist, and anon drawing over her face a thin white veil. As we

approached the Tiber, the towers and domes of Rome could be seen,

like a cloud lying low on the horizon. The road and the meadows, alike

under water, Jay between us and it, one sheet of silver. The horses

entered; they behaved nobly. We proceeded, every moment uncertain if

the water would not become deep; but the scene was beautiful, and I

enjoyed it highly. I have never yet felt afraid, when really in the

presence of danger, though sometimes in its apprehension.

At last we entered the gate; the diligence stopping to be examined, I

walked to the gate of Villa Ludovisi, and saw its rich shrubberies of

myrtle, so pale and eloquent in the moonlight....

My dear friend, Madame Arconati, has shown me generous love; a

Contadina, whom I have known this summer, hardly less. Every Sunday

she came in her holiday dress, a beautiful corset of red silk, richly

embroidered, rich petticoat, nice shoes and stockings, and handsome

coral necklace, on one arm an immense basket of grapes, on the other

a pair of live chickens to be eaten by me for her sake ("_per amore

mio_"), and wanted no present, no reward: it was, as she said, "for

the honor and pleasure of her acquaintance." The old father of the

family never met me but he took off his hat, and said, "Madame, it

is to me a consolation to see you." Are there not sweet flowers of

affection in life, glorious moments, great thoughts? Why must they be

so dearly paid for?

Many Americans have shown me great and thoughtful kindness and none

more so than William Story and his wife. They are now in Florence, but

may return. I do not know whether I shall stay here or not: I shall be

guided much by the state of my health.

All is quieted now in Rome. Late at night the Pope had to yield, but

not till the door of his palace was half burned, and his confessor

killed. This man, Parma, provoked his fate by firing on the people

from a window. It seems the Pope never gave order to fire; his guard

acted from a sudden impulse of their own. The new ministry chosen are

little inclined to accept. It is almost impossible for any one to act,

unless the Pope is stripped of his temporal power, and the hour

for that is not yet quite ripe; though they talk more and more of

proclaiming the Republic, and even of calling to Rome my friend

Mazzini.

If I came home at this moment, I should feel as if forced to leave my

own house, my own people, and the hour which I had always longed for.

If I do come in this way, all I can promise is to plague other people

as little as possible. My own plans and desires will be postponed to

another world.

Do not feel anxious about me. Some higher Power leads me through

strange, dark, thorny paths, broken at times by glades opening down

into prospects of sunny beauty, into which I am not permitted to

enter. If God disposes for us, it is not for nothing. This I can say:

my heart is in some respects better, it is kinder, and more humble.

Also, my mental acquisitions have certainly been great, however

inadequate to my desires.

* * * * *

TO HER BROTHER, K.F. FULLER.

Rome, January 19, 1849.

MY DEAR RICHARD,--With my window open, looking out upon St. Peter's,

and the glorious Italian sun pouring in, I was just thinking of you; I

was just thinking how I wished you were here, that we might walk forth

and talk together under the influence of these magnificent objects. I

was thinking of the proclamation of the Constitutional Assembly here,

a measure carried by courageous youth in the face of age, sustained by

the prejudices of many years, the ignorance of the people, and all the

wealth of the country; yet courageous youth faces not only these, but

the most threatening aspect of foreign powers, and dares a future of

blood and exile to achieve privileges which are our American common

birthright. I thought of the great interests which may in our country

be sustained without obstacle by every able man,--interests of

humanity, interests of God.

I thought of the new prospects of wealth opened to our countrymen by

the acquisition of New Mexico and California,--the vast prospects of

our country every way, so that it is itself a vast blessing to be born

an American; and I thought how impossible it is that one like you,

of so strong and generous a nature, should, if he can but patiently

persevere, be defrauded of a rich, manifold, powerful life.

Thursday eve, January 25.

This has been a most beautiful day, and I have taken a long walk out

of town. How much I should like sometimes to walk with you again! I

went to the church of St. Lorenzo, one of the most ancient in Rome,

rich in early mosaics, also with spoils from the temples, marbles,

ancient sarcophagi with fine bassirilievi, and magnificent columns.

There is a little of everything, but the medley is harmonized by the

action of time, and the sensation induced is that of repose. It has

the public cemetery, and there lie the bones of many poor; the rich

and noble lie in lead coffins in the church vaults of Rome, but St.

Lorenzo loved the poor. When his tormentors insisted on knowing where

he had hid his riches,--"There," he said, pointing to the crowd of

wretches who hovered near his bed, compelled to see the tyrants of the

earth hew down the tree that had nourished and sheltered them.

Amid the crowd of inexpressive epitaphs, one touched me, erected by

a son to his father. "He was," says the son, "an angel of prosperity,

seeking our good in distant countries with unremitting toll and pain.

We owe him all. For his death it is my only consolation that in life I

never left his side."

Returning, I passed the Pretorian Camp, the Campus Salisetus, where

vestals that had broken their vows were buried alive in the city

whose founder was born from a similar event. Such are the usual, the

frightful inconsistencies of mankind.

From my windows I see the Barberini palace; in its chambers are the

pictures of the Cenci, and the Galatea, so beautifully described by

Goethe; in the gardens are the remains of the tomb of Servius Tullius.

Yesterday as I went forth I saw the house where Keats lived in Rome,

and where he died; I saw the Casino of Raphael. Returning, I passed

the villa where Goethe lived when in Rome: afterwards, the houses of

Claude and Poussin.

Ah what human companionship here! how everything speaks! I live myself

in the apartment described in Andersen's "Improvvisatore," which get

you, and read a scene of the childhood of Antonio. I have the room, I

suppose, indicated as being occupied by the Danish sculptor.

* * * * *

TO THE SAME.

Rome, March 17, 1849.

I take occasion to enclose this seal, as a little birthday present,

for I think you will be twenty-five in May. I have used it a great

deal; the design is graceful and expressive,--the stone of some little

value.

I live with the severest economy consistent with my health. I could

not live for less anywhere. I have renounced much, have suffered more.

I trust I shall not find it impossible to accomplish, at least one

of my designs. This is, to see the end of the political struggle

in Italy, and write its history. I think it will come to its crisis

within, this year. But to complete my work as I have begun, I must

watch it to the end.

This work, if I can accomplish it, will be a worthy chapter in the

history of the world; and if written with the spirit which breathes

through me, and with sufficient energy and calmness to execute well

the details, would be what the motto on my ring indicates,--"_a

possession for ever, for man_."

It ought to be profitable to me pecuniarily; but in these respects

Fate runs so uniformly counter to me, that I dare not expect ever to

be free from perplexity and uncongenial labor. Still, these will never

more be so hard to me, if I shall have done something good, which may

survive my troubled existence. Yet it would be like the rest, if by

ill health, want of means, or being driven prematurely from the field

of observation, this hope also should be blighted. I am prepared to

have it so. Only my efforts tend to the accomplishment of my object;

and should they not be baffled, you will not see me before the summer

of 1850.

Meantime, let the future be what it may, I live as well as I can in

the present.

Farewell, my dear Richard; that you may lead a peaceful, aspiring, and

generous life was ever, and must ever be, the prayer from the soul of

your sister

MARGARET.

* * * * *

UNDAUNTED ROME.

Rome, May 6, 1849.

I write you from barricaded Rome. The "Mother of Nations" is now at

bay against them all. Rome was suffering before. The misfortunes of

other regions of Italy, the defeat at Novara, preconcerted in hope

to strike the last blow at Italian independence, the surrender and

painful condition of Genoa, the money-difficulties,--insuperable

unless the government could secure confidence abroad as well as at

home,--prevented her people from finding that foothold for which they

were ready.

The vacillations of France agitated them; still they could not

seriously believe she would ever act the part she has. We must say

France, because, though many honorable men have washed their hands

of all share in the perfidy, the Assembly voted funds to sustain the

expedition to Civita Vecchia; and the nation, the army, have remained

quiescent. No one was, no one could be, deceived as to the scope of

this expedition. It was intended to restore the Pope to the temporal

sovereignty, from which the people, by the use of suffrage, had

deposed him. No doubt the French, in case of success, proposed to

temper the triumph of Austria and Naples, and stipulate for conditions

that might soothe the Romans and make their act less odious. They were

probably deceived, also, by the representations of Gaëta, and believed

that a large party, which had been intimidated by the republicans,

would declare in favor of the Pope when they found themselves likely

to be sustained. But this last pretext can in noway avail them. They

landed at Civita Vecchia, and no one declared for the Pope. They

marched on Rome. Placards were affixed within the walls by hands

unknown, calling upon the Papal party to rise within the town. Not a

soul stirred. The French had no excuse left for pretending to believe

that the present government was not entirely acceptable to the people.

Notwithstanding, they assail the gates; they fire upon St. Peter's,

and their balls pierce the Vatican. They were repulsed, as they

deserved, retired in quick and shameful defeat, as surely the brave

French soldiery could not, if they had not been demoralized by the

sense of what an infamous course they were pursuing.

France, eager to destroy the last hope of Italian

emancipation,--France, the alguazil of Austria, the soldiers of

republican France, firing upon republican Rome! If there be angel

as well as demon powers that interfere in the affairs of men, those

bullets could scarcely fail to be turned back against their own

breasts. Yet Roman blood has flowed also; I saw how it stained

the walls of the Vatican Gardens on the 30th of April--the first

anniversary of the appearance of Pius IX.'s too famous encyclic

letter. Shall he, shall any Pope, ever again walk peacefully in these

gardens? It seems impossible! The temporal sovereignty of the Popes

is virtually destroyed by their shameless, merciless measures taken

to restore it. The spiritual dominion ultimately falls, too, into

irrevocable ruin. What may be the issue at this moment, we cannot

guess. The French have retired to Civita Vecchia, but whether to

reëmbark or to await reinforcements, we know not. The Neapolitan force

has halted within a few miles of the walls; it is not large, and they

are undoubtedly surprised at the discomfiture of the French. Perhaps

they wait for the Austrians, but we do not yet hear that these have

entered the Romagna. Meanwhile, Rome is strongly barricaded, and,

though she cannot stand always against a world in arms, she means at

least to do so as long as possible. Mazzini is at her head; she has

now a guide "who understands his faith," and all there is of a noble

spirit will show itself. We all feel very sad, because the idea of

bombs, barbarously thrown in, and street-fights in Rome, is peculiarly

dreadful. Apart from all the blood and anguish inevitable at such

times, the glories of Art may perish, and mankind be forever despoiled

of the most beautiful inheritance. Yet I would defend Rome to the last

moment. She must not be false to the higher hope that has dawned upon

her. She must not fall back again into servility and corruption.

And no one is willing. The interference of the French has roused the

weakest to resistance. "From the Austrians, from the Neapolitans,"

they cried, "we expected this; but from the French--it is too

infamous; it cannot be borne;" and they all ran to arms and fought

nobly.

The Americans here are not in a pleasant situation. Mr. Cass, the

Chargé of the United States, stays here without recognizing the

government. Of course, he holds no position at the present moment

that can enable him to act for us. Beside, it gives us pain that our

country, whose policy it justly is to avoid armed interference with

the affairs of Europe, should not use a moral influence. Rome has, as

we did, thrown off a government no longer tolerable; she has made

use of the suffrage to form another; she stands on the same basis as

ourselves. Mr. Rush did us great honor by his ready recognition of a

principle as represented by the French Provisional Government; had

Mr. Cass been empowered to do the same, our country would have acted

nobly, and all that is most truly American in America would have

spoken to sustain the sickened hopes of European democracy. But of

this more when I write next. Who knows what I may have to tell another

week?

* * * * *

TO HER BROTHER, R.B. FULLER.

Rome, May 22, 1849.

I do not write to Eugene yet, because around me is such excitement I

cannot settle my mind enough to write a letter good for anything. The

Neapolitans have been driven back; but the French, seem to be amusing

us with a pretence of treaties, while waiting for the Austrians to

come up. The Austrians cannot, I suppose, be more than three days'

march from us. I feel but little about myself. Such thoughts are

merged in indignation, and in the fears I have that Rome may be

bombarded. It seems incredible that any nation should be willing to

incur the infamy of such an act,--an act that may rob posterity of a

most precious part of its inheritance;--only so many incredible things

have happened of late. I am with William Story, his wife and uncle.

Very kind friends they have been in this strait. They are going away,

so soon as they can find horses,--going into Germany. I remain alone

in the house, under our flag, almost the only American except the

Consul and Ambassador. But Mr. Cass, the Envoy, has offered to do

anything for me, and I feel at liberty to call on him if I please.

But enough of this. Let us implore of fate another good meeting,

full and free, whether long or short. Love to dearest mother, Arthur,

Ellen, Lloyd. Say to all, that, should any accident possible to these

troubled times transfer me to another scene of existence, they need

not regret it. There must be better worlds than this, where innocent

blood is not ruthlessly shed, where treason does not so easily

triumph, where the greatest and best are not crucified. I do not say

this in apprehension, but in case of accident, you might be glad to

keep this last word from your sister

MARGARET.

* * * * *

TO R.W. EMERSON.

Rome, June 10, 1849.

I received your letter amid the round of cannonade and musketry. It

was a terrible battle fought here from the first to the last light of

day. I could see all its progress from my balcony. The Italians fought

like lions. It is a truly heroic spirit that animates them. They make

a stand here for honor and their rights, with little ground for hope

that they can resist, now they are betrayed by France.

Since the 30th of April, I go almost daily to the hospitals, and

though I have suffered, for I had no idea before how terrible gun-shot

wounds and wound-fevers are, yet I have taken pleasure, and great

pleasure, in being with the men. There is scarcely one who is not

moved by a noble spirit. Many, especially among the Lombards, are the

flower of the Italian youth. When they begin to get better, I carry

them books and flowers; they read, and we talk.

The palace of the Pope, on the Quirinal, is now used for

convalescents. In those beautiful gardens I walk with them, one with

his sling, another with his crutch. The gardener plays off all his

water-works for the defenders of the country, and gathers flowers for

me, their friend.

A day or two since, we sat in the Pope's little pavilion, where he

used to give private audience. The sun was going gloriously down over

Monte Mario, where gleamed the white tents of the French light-horse

among the trees. The cannonade was heard at intervals. Two bright-eyed

boys sat at our feet, and gathered up eagerly every word said by the

heroes of the day. It was a beautiful hour, stolen from the midst of

ruin and sorrow, and tales were told as full of grace and pathos as in

the gardens of Boccaccio, only in a very different spirit,--with noble

hope for man, and reverence for woman.

The young ladies of the family, very young girls, were filled with

enthusiasm for the suffering, wounded patriots, and they wished to

go to the hospital, to give their services. Excepting the three

superintendents, none but married ladies were permitted to serve

there, but their services were accepted. Their governess then wished

to go too, and, as she could speak several languages, she was admitted

to the rooms of the wounded soldiers, to interpret for them, as the

nurses knew nothing but Italian, and many of these poor men were

suffering because they could not make their wishes known. Some are

French, some Germans, many Poles. Indeed, I am afraid it is too true

that there were comparatively few Romans among them. This young lady

passed several nights there.

Should I never return, and sometimes I despair of doing so, it seems

so far off,--so difficult, I am caught in such a net of ties here,--if

ever you know of my life here, I think you will only wonder at the

constancy with which I have sustained myself,--the degree of profit to

which, amid great difficulties, I have put the time,--at least in the

way of observation. Meanwhile, love me all you can. Let me feel that,

amid the fearful agitations of the world, there are pure hands, with

healthful, even pulse, stretched out toward me, if I claim their

grasp.

I feel profoundly for Mazzini. At moments I am tempted to say, "Cursed

with every granted prayer,"--so cunning is the demon. Mazzini has

become the inspiring soul of his people. He saw Rome, to which all his

hopes through life tended, for the first time as a Roman citizen, and

to become in a few days its ruler. He has animated, he sustains her to

a glorious effort, which, if it fails this time, will not in the age.

His country will be free. Yet to me it would be so dreadful to cause

all this bloodshed,--to dig the graves of such martyrs!

Then, Rome is being destroyed; her glorious oaks,--her villas,

haunts of sacred beauty, that seemed the possession of the world for

ever,--the villa of Raphael, the villa of Albani, home of Winckelmann

and the best expression of the ideal of modern Rome, and so many other

sanctuaries of beauty,--all must perish, lest a foe should level his

musket from their shelter. I could not, could not!

I know not, dear friend, whether I shall ever get home across that

great ocean, but here in Rome I shall no longer wish to live.

O Rome, _my_ country! could I imagine that the triumph of what I held

dear was to heap such desolation on thy head!

Speaking of the republic, you say, "Do you not wish Italy had a great

man?" Mazzini is a great man. In mind, a great, poetic statesman; in

heart, a lover; in action, decisive and full of resource as Cæsar.

Dearly I love Mazzini. He came in, just as I had finished the first

letter to you. His soft, radiant look makes melancholy music in my

soul; it consecrates my present life, that, like the Magdalen, I may,

at the important hour, shed all the consecrated ointment on his head.

There is one, Mazzini, who understands thee well,--who knew thee no

less when an object of popular fear than now of idolatry,--and who, if

the pen be not held too feebly, will help posterity to know thee too!

* * * * *

TO HER SISTER, MRS. E.K. CHANNING.

Rome, June 19, 1849.

As was Eve, at first, I suppose every mother is delighted by the birth

of a man-child. There is a hope that he will conquer more ill, and

effect more good, than is expected from girls. This prejudice in favor

of man does not seem to be destroyed by his shortcomings for ages.

Still, each mother hopes to find in hers an Emanuel. I should like

very much to see your children, but hardly realize I ever shall.

The journey home seems so long, so difficult, so expensive. I should

really like to lie down here, and sleep my way into another sphere of

existence, if I could take with me one or two that love and need me,

and was sure of a good haven for them on that other side.

The world seems to go so strangely wrong! The bad side triumphs; the

blood and tears of the generous flow in vain. I assist at many saddest

scenes, and suffer for those whom I knew not before. Those whom I knew

and loved,--who, if they had triumphed, would have opened for me an

easier, broader, higher-mounting road,--are everyday more and more

involved in earthly ruin. Eternity is with us, but there is much

darkness and bitterness in this portion of it. A baleful star rose on

my birth, and its hostility, I fear, will never be disarmed while I

walk below.

* * * * *

TO W.H. CHANNING.

July, 1849.

I cannot tell you what I endured in leaving Rome, abandoning the

wounded soldiers,--knowing that there is no provision made for them,

when they rise from the beds where they have been thrown by a noble

courage, and have suffered with a noble patience. Some of the poorer

men, who rise bereft even of the right arm,--one having lost both the

right arm and the right leg,--I could have provided for with a small

sum. Could I have sold my hair, or blood from my arm, I would have

done it. Had any of the rich Americans remained in Rome, they would

have given it to me; they helped nobly at first, in the service of the

hospitals, when there was far less need; but they had all gone. What

would I have given could I but have spoken to one of the Lawrences,

or the Phillipses! They could and would have saved this misery. These

poor men are left helpless in the power of a mean and vindictive foe.

You felt so oppressed in the Slave States; imagine what I felt at

seeing all the noblest youth, all the genius of this dear land, again

enslaved!

* * * * *

TO HER MOTHER.

Florence, February 6, 1850.

Dearest Mother,--After receiving your letter of October, I answered

immediately; but as Richard mentions, in one dated December 4th, that

you have not heard, I am afraid, by some post-office mistake, it went

into the mail-bag of some sail-ship, instead of steamer, so you were

very long without hearing. I regret it the more, as I wanted so much

to respond fully to your letter,--so lovely, so generous, and which,

of all your acts of love, was perhaps the one most needed by me, and

which has touched me the most deeply.

I gave you in that a flattering picture of our life. And those

pleasant days lasted till the middle of December; but then came on

a cold unknown to Italy, and which has lasted ever since. As the

apartments were not prepared for such weather, we suffered a good

deal. Besides, both Ossoli and myself were taken ill at New-Year's

time, and were not quite well again, all January: now we are quite

well. The weather begins to soften, though still cloudy, damp, and

chilly, so that poor baby can go out very little; on that account he

does not grow so fast, and gets troublesome by evening, as he tires

of being shut up in two or three little rooms, where he has examined

every object hundreds of times. He is always pointing to the door. He

suffers much with chilblains, as do other children here; however, he

is, with that exception, in the best health, and is a great part of

the time very gay, laughing and dancing in the nurse-maid's arms, and

trying to sing and drum, in imitation of the bands, which play a great

deal in the Piazza.

Nothing special has happened to me. The uninhabitableness of the

rooms where I had expected to write, and the need of using our little

dining-room, the only one in which is a stove, for dressing baby,

taking care of him, eating, and receiving visits and messages, have

prevented my writing for six or seven weeks past. In the evening, when

baby went to bed, about eight, I began to have time, but was generally

too tired to do anything but read. The four hours, however, from nine

till one, beside the bright little fire, have been very pleasant. I

have thought of you a great deal, remembering how you suffer from cold

in the winter, and hope you are in a warm, comfortable house, have

pleasant books to read, and some pleasant friends to see. One does not

want many; only a few bright faces to look in now and then, and help

thaw the ice with little rills of genial conversation. I have fewer of

these than at Rome,--but still several.

* * * * *

Horace Sumner, youngest son of father's friend, Mr. Charles P. Sumner,

lives near us, and comes every evening to read a little while with

Ossoli. He has solid good in his heart and mind. We have a true regard

for him, and he has shown true and steadfast sympathy for us; when I

am ill or in a hurry, he helps me like a brother. Ossoli and Sumner

exchange some instruction in English and Italian.

* * * * *

My sister's last letter from Europe is full of solemnity, and

evidences her clear conviction of the perils of the voyage across the

treacherous ocean. It is a leave-taking, dearly cherished now by the

mother to whom it was addressed, the kindred of whom she speaks, and

by those other kindred,--those who in spirit felt near to and loved

her. It is as follows:--

Florence, May 14, 1850.

"Dear Mother,--I will believe I shall be welcome with my

treasures,--my husband and child. For me, I long so much to see you!

Should anything hinder our meeting upon earth, think of your daughter,

as one who always wished, at least, to do her duty, and who always

cherished you, according as her mind opened to discover excellence.

"Give dear love, too, to my brothers; and first to my eldest, faithful

friend, Eugene; a sister's love to Ellen; love to my kind good aunts,

and to my dear cousin E. God bless them!

"I hope we shall be able to pass some time together yet, in this

world. But if God decrees otherwise,--here and HEREAFTER, my dearest

mother,

"Your loving child,

"MARGARET."

PART IV.

HOMEWARD VOYAGE, AND MEMORIALS.

It seems proper that some account of the sad close of Madame Ossoli's

earthly journeyings should be embodied in this volume recording her

travels. But a brother's hand trembles even now and _cannot_ write it.

Noble, heroic, unselfish, _Christian_ was that death, even as had been

her life; but its outward circumstances were too painful for my pen

to describe. Nor needs it,--for a scene like that must have impressed

itself indelibly on those who witnessed it, and accurate and vivid

have been their narratives. The Memoirs of my sister contain a most

faithful description; but as they are accessible to all, and I trust

will be read by all who have read this volume, I have chosen rather

to give the accounts somewhat condensed which appeared in the New

York Tribune at the time of the calamity. The first is from the pen of

Bayard Taylor, who visited the scene on the day succeeding the wreck,

and describes the appearance of the shore and the remains of the

vessel. This is followed by the narrative of Mrs. Hasty, wife of the

captain, herself a participant in the scene, and so overwhelmed by

grief at her husband's loss, and that of friends she had learned so

much to value, that she has since faded from this life. A true and

noble woman, her account deserves to be remembered. The third article

is from the pen of Horace Greeley, my sister's ever-valued friend.

Several poems, suggested by this scene, written by those in the Old

World and New who loved and honored Madame Ossoli, are also inserted

here. The respect they testify for the departed is soothing to the

hearts of kindred, and to the many who love and cherish the memory of

Margaret Fuller.--ED.

LETTER OF BAYARD TAYLOR

Fire Island, Tuesday, July 23.

To the Editors of the Tribune:--

I reached the house of Mr. Smith Oakes, about one mile from the spot

where the Elizabeth was wrecked, at three o'clock this morning. The

boat in which I set out last night from Babylon, to cross the bay, was

seven hours making the passage. On landing among the sand-hills, Mr.

Oakes admitted me into his house, and gave me a place of rest for the

remaining two or three hours of the night.

This morning I visited the wreck, traversed the beach for some extent

on both sides, and collected all the particulars that are now likely

to be obtained, relative to the closing scenes of this terrible

disaster. The sand is strewn for a distance of three or four miles

with fragments of planks, spars, boxes, and the merchandise with which

the vessel was laden. With the exception of a piece of her broadside,

which floated to the shore intact, all the timbers have been so

chopped and broken by the sea, that scarcely a stick of ten feet in

length can be found. In front of the wreck these fragments are piled

up along high-water mark to the height of several feet, while farther

in among the sand-hills are scattered casks of almonds stove in,

and their contents mixed with the sand, sacks of juniper-berries,

oil-flasks, &c. About half the hull remains under water, not more than

fifty yards from the shore. The spars and rigging belonging to the

foremast, with part of the mast itself, are still attached to the

ruins, surging over them at every swell. Mr. Jonathan Smith, the agent

of the underwriters, intended to have the surf-boat launched this

morning, for the purpose of cutting away the rigging and ascertaining

how the wreck lies; but the sea is still too high.

From what I can learn, the loss of the Elizabeth is mainly to be

attributed to the inexperience of the mate, Mr. H.P. Bangs, who acted

as captain after leaving Gibraltar. By his own statement, he supposed

he was somewhere between Cape May and Barnegat, on Thursday evening.

The vessel was consequently running northward, and struck head on.

At the second thump, a hole was broken in her side, the seas poured

through and over her, and she began going to pieces. This happened at

ten minutes before four o'clock. The passengers were roused from

their sleep by the shock, and hurried out of the cabin in their

night-clothes, to take refuge on the forecastle, which was the least

exposed part of the vessel. They succeeded with great difficulty; Mrs.

Hasty, the widow of the late captain, fell into a hatchway, from which

she was dragged by a sailor who seized her by the hair.

The swells increased continually, and the danger of the vessel giving

way induced several of the sailors to commit themselves to the waves.

Previous to this they divested themselves of their clothes, which they

tied to pieces of plank and sent ashore. These were immediately

seized upon by the beach pirates, and never afterward recovered.

The carpenter cut loose some planks and spars, and upon one of these

Madame Ossoli was advised to trust herself, the captain promising to

go in advance, with her boy. She refused, saying that she had no wish

to live without the child, and would not, at that hour, give the care

of it to another. Mrs. Hasty then took hold of a plank, in company

with the second mate, Mr. Davis, through whose assistance she landed

safely, though terribly bruised by the floating timber. The captain

clung to a hatch, and was washed ashore insensible, where he was

resuscitated by the efforts of Mr. Oakes and several others, who were

by this time collected on the beach. Most of the men were entirely

destitute of clothing, and some, who were exhausted and ready to let

go their hold, were saved by the islanders, who went into the surf

with lines about their waists, and caught them.

The young Italian girl, Celesta Pardena, who was bound for New York,

where she had already lived in the family of Henry Peters Gray, the

artist, was at first greatly alarmed, and uttered the most piercing

screams. By the exertions of the Ossolis she was quieted, and

apparently resigned to her fate. The passengers reconciled themselves

to the idea of death. At the proposal of the Marquis Ossoli some time

was spent in prayer, after which all sat down calmly to await the

parting of the vessel. The Marchioness Ossoli was entreated by the

sailors to leave the vessel, or at least to trust her child to them,

but she steadily refused.

Early in the morning some men had been sent to the lighthouse for the

life-boat which is kept there. Although this is but two miles distant,

the boat did not arrive till about one o'clock, by which time the gale

had so increased, and the swells were so high and terrific, that it

was impossible to make any use of it. A mortar was also brought for

the purpose of firing a line over the vessel, to stretch a hawser

between it and the shore. The mortar was stationed on the lee of

a hillock, about a hundred and fifty rods from the wreck, that the

powder might be kept dry. It was fired five times, but failed to

carry a line more than half the necessary distance. Just before the

forecastle sunk, the remaining sailors determined to leave.

The steward, with whom the child had always been a great favorite,

took it, almost by main force, and plunged with it into the sea;

neither reached the shore alive. The Marquis Ossoli was soon

afterwards washed away, but his wife remained in ignorance of his

fate. The cook, who was the last person that reached the shore alive,

said that the last words he heard her speak were: "I see nothing but

death before me,--I shall never reach the shore." It was between two

and three o'clock in the afternoon, and after lingering for about ten

hours, exposed to the mountainous surf that swept over the vessel,

with the contemplation of death constantly forced upon her mind, she

was finally overwhelmed as the foremast fell. It is supposed that her

body and that of her husband are still buried under the ruins of the

vessel. Mr. Horace Sumner, who jumped overboard early in the morning,

was never seen afterwards.

The dead bodies that were washed on shore were terribly bruised and

mangled. That of the young Italian girl was enclosed in a rough box,

and buried in the sand, together with those of the sailors. Mrs. Hasty

had by this time found a place of shelter at Mr. Oakes's house, and

at her request the body of the boy, Angelo Eugene Ossoli, was carried

thither, and kept for a day previous to interment. The sailors, who

had all formed a strong attachment to him during the voyage, wept like

children when they saw him. There was some difficulty in finding a

coffin when the time of burial came, whereupon they took one of their

chests, knocked out the tills, laid the body carefully inside, locked

and nailed down the lid. He was buried in a little nook between two of

the sand-hills, some distance from the sea.

The same afternoon a trunk belonging to the Marchioness Ossoli came

to shore, and was fortunately secured before the pirates had an

opportunity of purloining it. Mrs. Hasty informs me that it contained

several large packages of manuscripts, which she dried carefully by

the fire. I have therefore a strong hope that the work on Italy will

be entirely recovered. In a pile of soaked papers near the door,

I found files of the _Democratie Pacifique_ and _Il Nazionale_ of

Florence, as well as several of Mazzini's pamphlets, which I have

preserved.

An attempt will probably be made to-morrow to reach the wreck with the

surf-boat. Judging from its position and the known depth of the water,

I should think the recovery, not only of the bodies, if they are still

remaining there, but also of Powers's statue and the blocks of rough

Carrara, quite practicable, if there should be a sufficiency of still

weather. There are about a hundred and fifty tons of marble under the

ruins. The paintings, belonging to Mr. Aspinwall, which were washed

ashore in boxes, and might have been saved had any one been on the

spot to care for them, are for the most part utterly destroyed. Those

which were least injured by the sea-water were cut from the frames

and carried off by the pirates; the frames were broken in pieces,

and scattered along the beach. This morning I found several shreds of

canvas, evidently more than a century old, half buried in the sand.

All the silk, Leghorn braid, hats, wool, oil, almonds, and other

articles contained in the vessel, were carried off as soon as they

came to land. On Sunday there were nearly a thousand persons here,

from all parts of the coast between Rockaway and Montauk, and

more than half of them were engaged in secreting and carrying off

everything that seemed to be of value.

The two bodies found yesterday were those of sailors. All have now

come to land but those of the Ossolis and Horace Sumner. If not found

in the wreck, they will be cast ashore to the westward of this, as the

current has set in that direction since the gale.

Yours, &c.

* * * * *

THE WRECK OF THE ELIZABETH.

From a conversation with Mrs. Hasty, widow of the captain of the

ill-fated Elizabeth, we gather the following particulars of her voyage

and its melancholy termination.

We have already stated that Captain Hasty was prostrated, eight days

after leaving Leghorn, by a disease which was regarded and treated as

fever, but which ultimately exhibited itself as small-pox of the most

malignant type. He died of it just as the vessel reached Gibraltar,

and his remains were committed to the deep. After a short detention

in quarantine, the Elizabeth resumed her voyage on the 8th ultimo,

and was long baffled by adverse winds. Two days from Gibraltar, the

terrible disease which had proved fatal to the captain attacked the

child of the Ossolis, a beautiful boy of two years, and for many days

his recovery was regarded as hopeless. His eyes were completely closed

for five days, his head deprived of all shape, and his whole person

covered with pustules; yet, through the devoted attention of his

parents and their friends, he survived, and at length gradually

recovered. Only a few scars and red spots remained on his face and

body, and these were disappearing, to the great joy of his mother, who

felt solicitous that his rare beauty should not be marred at his first

meeting with those she loved, and especially her mother.

At length, after a month of slow progress, the wind shifted, and blew

strongly from the southwest for several days, sweeping them rapidly

on their course, until, on Thursday evening last, they knew that they

were near the end of their voyage. Their trunks were brought up and

repacked, in anticipation of a speedy arrival in port. Meantime, the

breeze gradually swelled to a gale, which became decided about nine

o'clock on that evening. But their ship was new and strong, and

all retired to rest as usual. They were running west, and supposed

themselves about sixty miles farther south than they actually were.

By their reckoning, they would be just off the harbor of New York next

morning. About half past two o'clock, Mr. Bangs, the mate in command,

took soundings, and reported twenty-one fathoms. He said that depth

insured their safety till daylight, and turned in again. Of course,

all was thick around the vessel, and the storm howling fiercely. One

hour afterward, the ship struck with great violence, and in a moment

was fast aground. She was a stout brig of 531 tons, five years old,

heavily laden with marble, &c., and drawing seventeen feet water. Had

she been light, she might have floated over the bar into twenty feet

water, and all on board could have been saved. She struck rather

sidewise than bows on, canted on her side and stuck fast, the mad

waves making a clear sweep over her, pouring down into the cabin

through the skylight, which was destroyed. One side of the cabin

was immediately and permanently under water, the other frequently

drenched. The passengers, who were all up in a moment, chose the most

sheltered positions, and there remained, calm, earnest, and resigned

to any fate, for a long three hours. No land was yet visible; they

knew not where they were, but they knew that their chance of surviving

was small indeed. When the coast was first visible through the driving

storm in the gray light of morning, the sand-hills were mistaken for

rocks, which made the prospect still more dismal. The young Ossoli

cried a little with discomfort and fright, but was soon hushed to

sleep. Our friend Margaret had two life-preservers, but one of them

proved unfit for use. All the boats had been smashed in pieces or torn

away soon after the vessel struck; and it would have been madness to

launch them in the dark, if it had been possible to launch them at

all, with the waves charging over the wreck every moment. A sailor,

soon after light, took Madame Ossoli's serviceable life-preserver

and swam ashore with it, in quest of aid for those left on board, and

arrived safe, but of course could not return his means of deliverance.

By 7 A.M. it became evident that the cabin must soon go to pieces, and

indeed it was scarcely tenantable then. The crew were collected in

the forecastle, which was stronger and less exposed, the vessel having

settled by the stem, and the sailors had been repeatedly ordered to go

aft and help the passengers forward, but the peril was so great that

none obeyed. At length the second mate, Davis, went himself,

and accompanied the Italian girl, Celesta Pardena, safely to the

forecastle, though with great difficulty. Madame Ossoli went next, and

had a narrow escape from being washed away, but got over. Her child

was placed in a bag tied around a sailor's neck, and thus carried

safely. Marquis Ossoli and the rest followed, each convoyed by the

mate or one of the sailors.

All being collected in the forecastle, it was evident that their

position was still most perilous, and that the ship could not much

longer hold together. The women were urged to try first the experiment

of taking each a plank and committing themselves to the waves. Madame

Ossoli refused thus to be separated from her husband and child. She

had from the first expressed a willingness to live or die with them,

but not to live without them. Mrs. Hasty was the first to try the

plank, and, though the struggle was for some time a doubtful one, did

finally reach the shore, utterly exhausted. There was a strong current

setting to the westward, so that, though the wreck lay but a quarter

of a mile from the shore, she landed three fourths of a mile distant.

No other woman, and no passenger, survives, though several of the

crew came ashore after she did, in a similar manner. The last who came

reports that the child had been washed away from the man who held it

before the ship broke up, that Ossoli had in like manner been washed

from the foremast, to which he was clinging; but, in the horror of the

moment, Margaret never learned that those she so clung to had preceded

her to the spirit land. Those who remained of the crew had just

persuaded her to trust herself to a plank, in the belief that Ossoli

and their child had already started for the shore, when just as she

was stepping down, a great wave broke over the vessel and swept her

into the boiling deep. She never rose again. The ship broke up soon

after (about 10 A.M. Mrs. Hasty says, instead of the later hour

previously reported); but both mates and most of the crew got on

one fragment or another. It was supposed that those of them who were

drowned were struck by floating spars or planks, and thus stunned or

disabled so as to preclude all chance of their rescue.

We do not know at the time of this writing whether the manuscript of

our friend's work on Italy and her late struggles has been saved. We

fear it has not been. One of her trunks is known to have been saved;

but, though it contained a good many papers, Mrs. Hasty believes that

this was not among them. The author had thrown her whole soul into

this work, had enjoyed the fullest opportunities for observation, was

herself a partaker in the gallant though unsuccessful struggle which

has redeemed the name of Rome from the long rust of sloth, servility,

and cowardice, was the intimate friend and compatriot of the

Republican leaders, and better fitted than any one else to refute the

calumnies and falsehoods with which their names have been blackened by

the champions of aristocratic "order" throughout the civilized world.

We cannot forego the hope that her work on Italy has been saved, or

will yet be recovered.

* * * * *

The following is a complete list of the persons lost by the wreck of

the ship Elizabeth:--

Giovanni, Marquis Ossoli.

Margaret Fuller Ossoli.

Their child, Eugene Angelo Ossoli.

Celesta Pardena, of Rome.

Horace Sumner, of Boston.

George Sanford, seaman (Swede).

Henry Westervelt, seaman (Swede).

George Bates, steward.

* * * * *

DEATH OF MARGARET FULLER.

A great soul has passed from this mortal stage of being by the death

of MARGARET FULLER, by marriage Marchioness Ossoli, who, with her

husband and child, Mr. Horace Sumner of Boston,[A] and others, was

drowned in the wreck of the brig Elizabeth from Leghorn for this

port, on the south shore of Long Island, near Fire Island, on Friday

afternoon last. No passenger survives to tell the story of that night

of horrors, whose fury appalled many of our snugly sheltered citizens

reposing securely in their beds. We can adequately realize what it

must have been to voyagers approaching our coast from the Old World,

on vessels helplessly exposed to the rage of that wild southwestern

gale, and seeing in the long and anxiously expected land of their

youth and their love only an aggravation of their perils, a death-blow

to their hopes, an assurance of their temporal doom!

[Footnote A: Horace Sumner, one of the victims of the lamentable wreck

of the Elizabeth, was the youngest son of the late Hon. Charles P.

Sumner, of Boston, for many years Sheriff of Suffolk County, and the

brother of George Sumner, Esq., the distinguished American writer, now

resident at Paris, and of Hon. Charles Sumner of Boston, who is well

known for his legal and literary eminence throughout the country. He

was about twenty-four years of age, and had been abroad for nearly a

year, travelling in the South of Europe for the benefit of his health.

The past winter was spent by him chiefly in Florence, where he was on

terms of familiar intimacy with the Marquis and Marchioness Ossoli,

and was induced to take passage in the same vessel with them for his

return to his native land. He was a young man of singular modesty of

deportment, of an original turn of mind, and greatly endeared to his

friends by the sweetness of his disposition and the purity of his

character.]

Margaret Fuller was the daughter of Hon. Timothy Fuller, a lawyer

of Boston, but nearly all his life a resident of Cambridge, and a

Representative of the Middlessex District in Congress from 1817 to

1825. Mr. Fuller, upon his retirement from Congress, purchased a farm

at some distance from Boston, and abandoned law for agriculture, soon

after which he died. His widow and six children still survive.

Margaret, if we mistake not, was the first-born, and from a very early

age evinced the possession of remarkable intellectual powers. Her

father regarded her with a proud admiration, and was from childhood

her chief instructor, guide, companion, and friend. He committed the

too common error of stimulating her intellect to an assiduity and

persistency of effort which severely taxed and ultimately injured her

physical powers.[A] At eight years of age he was accustomed to require

of her the composition of a number of Latin verses per day, while

her studies in philosophy, history, general science, and current

literature were in after years extensive and profound. After her

father's death, she applied herself to teaching as a vocation, first

in Boston, then in Providence, and afterward in Boston again, where

her "Conversations" were for several seasons attended by classes of

women, some of them married, and including many from the best families

of the "American Athens."

[Footnote A: I think this opinion somewhat erroneous, for reasons

which I have already given in the edition recently published of Woman

in the Nineteenth Century. The reader is referred to page 352 of

that work, and also to page 38, where I believe my sister personified

herself under the name of Miranda, and stated clearly and justly the

relation which, existed between her father and herself.--ED.]

In the autumn of 1844, she accepted an invitation to take part in the

conduct of the Tribune, with especial reference to the department

of Reviews and Criticism on current Literature, Art, Music, &c.; a

position which she filled for nearly two years,--how eminently,

our readers well know. Her reviews of Longfellow's Poems, Wesley's

Memoirs, Poe's Poems, Bailey's "Festus," Douglas's Life, &c. must yet

be remembered by many. She had previously found "fit audience, though

few," for a series of remarkable papers on "The Great Musicians,"

"Lord Herbert of Cherbury," "Woman," &c., &c., in "The Dial," a

quarterly of remarkable breadth and vigor, of which she was at first

co-editor with Ralph Waldo Emerson, but which was afterward edited by

him only, though she continued a contributor to its pages. In 1843,

she accompanied some friends on a tour via Niagara, Detroit, and

Mackinac to Chicago, and across the prairies of Illinois, and her

resulting volume, entitled "Summer on the Lakes," is one of the best

works in this department ever issued from the American press. It

was too good to be widely and instantly popular. Her "Woman in the

Nineteenth Century"--an extension of her essay in the Dial--was

published by us early in 1845, and a moderate edition sold. The next

year, a selection from her "Papers on Literature and Art" was issued

by Wiley and Putnam, in two fair volumes of their "Library of American

Books." We believe the original edition was nearly or quite exhausted,

but a second has not been called for, while books nowise comparable

to it for strength or worth have run through half a dozen editions.[A]

These "Papers" embody some of her best contributions to the Dial, the

Tribune, and perhaps one or two which had not appeared in either.

[Footnote A: A second edition has since been published.--ED.]

In the summer of 1845, Miss Fuller accompanied the family of a devoted

friend to Europe, visiting England, Scotland, France, and passing

through Italy to Rome, where they spent the ensuing winter. She

accompanied her friends next spring to the North of Italy, and there

stopped, spending most of the summer at Florence, and returning at

the approach of winter to Rome, where she was soon after married to

Giovanni, Marquis Ossoli, who had made her acquaintance during her

first winter in the Eternal City. They have since resided in the

Roman States until the last summer, after the surrender of Rome to the

French army of assassins of liberty, when they deemed it expedient

to migrate to Florence, both having taken an active part in the

Republican movement which resulted so disastrously,--nay, of which the

ultimate result is yet to be witnessed. Thence in June they departed

and set sail at Leghorn for this port, in the Philadelphia brig

Elizabeth, which was doomed to encounter a succession of disasters.

They had not been many days at sea when the captain was prostrated by

a disease which ultimately exhibited itself as confluent small-pox

of the most malignant type, and terminated his life soon after they

touched at Gibraltar, after a sickness of intense agony and loathsome

horror. The vessel was detained some days in quarantine by reason of

this affliction, but finally set sail again on the 8th ultimo, just in

season to bring her on our coast on the fearful night between Thursday

and Friday last, when darkness, rain, and a terrific gale from the

southwest (the most dangerous quarter possible), conspired to hurl

her into the very jaws of destruction. It is said, but we know not how

truly, that the mate in command since the captain's death mistook

the Fire Island light for that on the Highlands of Neversink, and so

fatally miscalculated his course; but it is hardly probable that any

other than a first-class, fully manned ship could have worked off

that coast under such a gale, blowing him directly toward the roaring

breakers. She struck during the night, and before the next evening

the Elizabeth was a mass of drifting sticks and planks, while her

passengers and part of her crew were buried in the boiling surges.

Alas that our gifted friend, and those nearest to and most loved by

her, should have been among them!

We trust a new, compact, and cheap edition or selection, of Margaret

Fuller's writings will soon be given to the public, prefaced by a

Memoir. It were a shame to us if one so radiantly lofty in intellect,

so devoted to human liberty and well-being, so ready to dare and to

endure for the upraising of her sex and her race, should perish from

among us, and leave no memento less imperfect and casual than those we

now have. We trust the more immediate relatives of our departed friend

will lose no time in selecting the fittest person to prepare a Memoir,

with a selection from her writings, for the press.[A] America has

produced no woman who in mental endowments and acquirements has

surpassed Margaret Fuller, and it will be a public misfortune if her

thoughts are not promptly and acceptably embodied.

[Footnote A: The reader is aware that such a Memoir has since been

published, and that several of her works have been republished

likewise. I trust soon to publish a volume of Madame Ossoli's

Miscellaneous Writings.--ED.]

* * * * *

MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI

BY C.P. CRANCH.

O still, sweet summer days! O moonlight nights!

After so drear a storm how can ye shine?

O smiling world of many-hued delights,

How canst thou 'round our sad hearts still entwine

The accustomed wreaths of pleasure? How, O Day,

Wakest thou so full of beauty? Twilight deep,

How diest thou so tranquilly away?

And how, O Night, bring'st thou the sphere of sleep?

For she is gone from us,--gone, lost for ever,--

In the wild billows swallowed up and lost,--

Gone, full of love, life, hope, and high endeavor,

Just when we would have welcomed her the most.

Was it for this, O woman, true and pure!

That life through shade and light had formed thy mind

To feel, imagine, reason, and endure,--

To soar for truth, to labor for mankind?

Was it for this sad end thou didst bear thy part

In deeds and words for struggling Italy,--

Devoting thy large mind and larger heart

That Rome in later days might yet be free?

And, from that home driven out by tyranny,

Didst turn to see thy fatherland once more,

Bearing affection's dearest ties with thee;

And as the vessel bore thee to our shore,

And hope rose to fulfilment,--on the deck,

When friends seemed almost beckoning unto thee:

O God! the fearful storm,--the splitting wreck,--

The drowning billows of the dreary sea!

O, many a heart was stricken dumb with grief!

We who had known thee here,--had met thee there

Where Rome threw golden light on every leaf

Life's volume turned in that enchanted air,--

O friend! how we recall the Italian days

Amid the Cæsar's ruined palace halls,--

The Coliseum, and the frescoed blaze

Of proud St. Peter's dome,--the Sistine walls,--

The lone Campagna and the village green,--

The Vatican,--the music and dim light

Of gorgeous temples,--statues, pictures, seen

With thee: those sunny days return so bright,

Now thou art gone! Thou hast a fairer world

Than that bright clime. The dreams that filled thee here

Now find divine completion, and, unfurled

Thy spirit-wings, find out their own high sphere.

Farewell! thought-gifted, noble-hearted one!

We, who have known thee, know thou art not lost;

The star that set in storms still shines upon

The o'ershadowing cloud, and, when we sorrow most,

In the blue spaces of God's firmament

Beams out with purer light than we have known.

Above the tempest and the wild lament

Of those who weep the radiance that is flown.

* * * * *

THE DEATH OF MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI.

BY MARY C. AMES.

O Italy! amid thy scenes of blood,

She acted long a woman's noble part!

Soothing the dying of thy sons, proud Rome!

Till thou wert bowed, O city of her heart!

When thou hadst fallen, joy no longer flowed

In the rich sunlight of thy heaven;

And from thy glorious domes and shrines of art,

No quickening impulse to her life was given.

From the deep shadow of thy cypress hills,

From the soft beauty of thy classic plains,

The noble-hearted, with, her treasures, turned

To the far land where Freedom proudly reigns.

After the rocking of long years of storms,

Her weary spirit looked and longed for rest;

Pictures of home, of loved and kindred forms,

Rose warm and life-like in her aching breast.

But the wild ocean rolled before her home;

And, listening long unto its fearful moan,

She thought of myriads who had found their rest

Down in its caverns, silent, deep, and lone.

Then rose the prayer within her heart of hearts,

With the dark phantoms of a coming grief,

That "_Nino_, Ossoli, and I may go

_Together_;--that the anguish may be brief."

The bark spread out her pennons proud and free,

The sunbeams frolicked with the wanton waves;

Smiled through the long, long days the summer sea,

And sung sweet requiems o'er her sunken graves.

E'en then the shadow of the fearful King

Hung deep and darkening o'er the fated bark;

Suffering and death and anguish reigned, ere came

Hope's weary dove back to the longing ark.

This was the morning to the night of woe;

When the grim Ocean, in his fiercest wrath,

Held fearful contest with the god of storms,

Who lashed the waves with death upon his path.

O night of agony! O awful morn,

That oped on such a scene thy sullen eyes!

The shattered ship,--those wrecked and broken hearts,

Who only prayed, "_Together let us die_."

Was this thy greeting longed for, Margaret,

In the high, noontide of thy lofty pride?

The welcome sighed for, in thine hours of grief,

When pride had fled and hope in thee had died?

Twelve hours' communion with the Terror-King!

No wandering hope to give the heart relief!

And yet thy prayer was heard,--the cold waves wrapt

Those forms "together," and the woe was "brief."

Thus closed thy day in darkness and in tears;

Thus waned a life, alas! too full of pain;

But O thou noble woman! thy brief life,

Though full of sorrows, was not lived in vain.

No more a pilgrim o'er a weary waste,

With light ineffable thy mind is crowned;

Heaven's richest lore is thine own heritage;

All height is gained, thy "kingdom" now is found.

* * * * *

TO THE MEMORY OF MARGARET FULLER.

BY E. OAKES SMITH.

We hailed thee, Margaret, from the sea,

We hailed thee o'er the wave,

And little thought, in greeting thee,

Thy home would be a grave.

We blest thee in thy laurel crown,

And in the myrtle's sheen,--

Rejoiced thy noble worth to own,

Still joy, our tears between.

We hoped that many a happy year

Would bless thy coming feet;

And thy bright fame grow brighter here,

By Fatherland made sweet.

Gone, gone! with all thy glorious thought,--

Gone with thy waking life,--

With the green chaplet Fame had wrought,--

The joy of Mother, Wife.

Oh! who shall dare thy harp to take,

And pour upon the air

The clear, calm music, that should wake

The heart to love and prayer!

The lip, all eloquent, is stilled

And silent with its trust,--

The heart, with Woman's greatness filled,

Must crumble to the dust:

But from thy _great heart_ we will take

New courage for the strife;

From petty ills our bondage break,

And labor with new life.

Wake up, in darkness though it be,

To better truth and light;

Patient in toil, as we saw thee,

In searching for the light;

And mindless of the scorn it brings,

For 't is in desert land

That angels come with sheltering wings

To lead us by the hand.

Courageous one! thou art not lost,

Though sleeping in the wave;

Upon its chainless billows tost,

For thee is fitting grave.

* * * * *

SLEEP SWEETLY, GENTLE CHILD.[A]

[The only child of the Marchioness Ossoli, well known

as Margaret Fuller, is buried in the Valley Cemetery, at

Manchester, N.H. There is always a vase of flowers placed near

the grave, and a marble slab, with a cross and lily sculptured

upon it, bears this inscription: "In Memory of Angelo Eugene

Philip Ossoli, who was born at Rieti, in Italy, 5th September,

1848, and perished by shipwreck off Fire Island, with both his

parents, Giovanni Angelo and Margaret Fuller Ossoli, on the

19th of July, 1850."]

Sleep sweetly, gentle child! though to this sleep

The cold winds rocked thee, on the ocean's breast,

And strange, wild murmurs o'er the dark, blue deep

Were the last sounds that lulled thee to thy rest,

And while the moaning waves above thee rolled,

The hearts that loved thee best grew still and cold.

Sleep sweetly, gentle child! though the loved tone

That twice twelve months had hushed thee to repose

Could give no answer to the tearful moan

That faintly from thy sea-moss pillow rose.

That night the arms that closely folded thee

Were the wet weeds that floated in the sea.

Sleep sweetly, gentle child! the cold, blue wave

Hath pitied the sad sighs the wild winds bore,

And from the wreck it held _one_ treasure gave

To the fond watchers weeping on the shore;--

Now the sweet vale shall guard its precious trust,

While mourning hearts weep o'er thy silent dust.

Sleep sweetly, gentle child! love's tears are shed

Upon the garlands of fair Northern flowers

That fond hearts strew above thy lowly bed,

Through all our summer's glad and pleasant hours:

For thy sake, and for hers who sleeps beneath the wave,

Kind hands bring flowers to fade upon thy grave.

Sleep sweetly, gentle child! the warm wind sighs

Amid the dark pines through this quiet dell,

And waves the light flower-shade that lies

Upon the white-leaved lily's sculptured bell;--

The "Valley's" flowers are fair, the turf is green;--

Sleep sweetly here, wept-for Eugene!

Sleep sweetly, gentle child! this peaceful rest

Hath early given thee to a home above,

Safe from all sin and tears, for, ever blest

To sing sweet praises of redeeming love.--

The love that took thee to that world of bliss

Ere thou hadst learned the sighs and griefs of this.

JULIET.

Laurel Brook, N.H., September, 1851.

[Footnote A: These lines are beautiful and full of sweet sympathy. The

home of the mother and brother of Margaret Fuller being now removed

from Manchester to Boston, the remains of the little child, too dear

to remain distant from us, have been removed to Mount Auburn. The

same marble slab is there with, its inscription, and the lines deserve

insertion here.--ED.]

* * * * *

ON THE DEATH OF MARGARET FULLER.

BY G.P.R. JAMES.

High hopes and bright thine early path bedecked,

And aspirations beautiful though wild,--

A heart too strong, a powerful will unchecked,

A dream that earth-things could be undefiled.

But soon, around thee, grew a golden chain,

That bound the woman to more human things,

And taught with joy--and, it may be, with pain--

That there are limits e'en to Spirit's wings.

Husband and child,--the loving and beloved,--

Won, from the vast of thought, a mortal part,

The impassioned wife and mother, yielding, proved

Mind has itself a master--in the heart.

In distant lands enhaloed by, old fame

Thou found'st the only chain thy spirit knew,

But captive ledst thy captors, from the shame

Of ancient freedom, to the pride of new.

And loved hearts clung around thee on the deck,

Welling with sunny hopes 'neath sunny skies:

The wide horizon round thee had no speck,--

E'en Doubt herself could see no cloud arise.

Thy loved ones clung around thee, when the sail

O'er wide Atlantic billows onward bore

Thy freight of joys, and the expanding gale

Pressed the glad bark toward thy native shore.

The loved ones clung around thee still, when all

Was darkness, tempest, terror, and dismay,--

More closely clung around thee, when the pall

Of Fate was falling o'er the mortal clay.

With them to live,--with them, with them to die,

Sublime of human love intense and fine!--

Was thy last prayer unto the Deity;

And it was granted thee by Love Divine.

In the same billow,--in the same dark grave,--

Mother, and child, and husband, find their rest.

The dream is ended; and the solemn wave

Gives back the gifted to her country's breast.

* * * * *

ON THE DEATH OF MARQUIS OSSOLI AND HIS WIFE, MARGARET FULLER.

BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

Over his millions Death has lawful power,

But over thee, brave Ossoli! none, none!

After a long struggle, in a fight

Worthy of Italy to youth restored,

Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surge

Of the Atlantic; on its shore; in reach

Of help; in trust of refuge; sunk with all

Precious on earth to thee,--a child, a wife!

Proud as thou wert of her, America

Is prouder, showing to her sons how high

Swells woman's courage in a virtuous breast.

She would not leave behind her those she loved:

Such solitary safety might become

Others,--not her; not her who stood beside

The pallet of the wounded, when the worst

Of France and Perfidy assailed the walls

Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul,

Renowned for strength of genius, Margaret!

Rest with the twain too dear! My words are few,

And shortly none will hear my failing voice,

But the same language with more full appeal

Shall hail thee. Many are the sons of song

Whom thou hast heard upon thy native plains,

Worthy to sing of thee; the hour is come;

Take we our seats and let the dirge begin.

* * * * *

MONUMENT TO THE OSSOLI FAMILY.

[FROM THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE.]

The family of Margaret Fuller Ossoli have just erected to her memory,

and that of her husband and child, a marble monument in Mount Auburn

cemetery, in Massachusetts. It is located on Pyrola Path, in a

beautiful part of the grounds, and has near it some noble oaks, while

the hand of affection has planted many a flower. The body of Margaret

Fuller rests in the ocean, but her memory abides in many hearts. She

needs no monumental stone, but human affection loves thus to do honor

to the departed.

The following is the inscription on the monument:--

Erected

In Memory of

MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI,

Born in Cambridge, Mass., May 23, 1810.

By birth, a Citizen of New England; by adoption, a Citizen of Rome; by genius,

belonging to the World. In youth, an insatiate Student, seeking the

highest culture; in riper years, Teacher, Writer, Critic of

Literature and Art; in maturer age, Companion and Helper

of many earnest Reformers in America

and Europe.

And

In Memory of her Husband,

GIOVANNI ANGELO, MARQUIS OSSOLI.

He gave up rank, station, and home for the Roman Republic,

and for his Wife and Child.

And

In Memory of that Child,

ANGELO EUGENE PHILIP OSSOLI,

Born in Rieti, Italy, Sept. 5, 1848,

Whose dust reposes at the foot of this stone.

They passed from life together by shipwreck,

July 19, 1850.

United in life by mutual love, labors, and trials, the merciful Father

took them together, and

In death they were not divided.

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's At Home And Abroad, by Margaret Fuller Ossoli