MARGARET FULLER (OSSOLI).
Sarah Margaret Fuller was born at Cambridgeport, Mass., May 23, 1810. She was the eldest child of Timothy Fuller, “a lawyer and a politician,” and Margaret Crane his wife. Her education was begun at home by her father, a somewhat severe teacher. In an autobiographical fragment she relates the influence upon her young mind of the study of the Latin language and of Roman history, and of her readings in Shakespeare, Cervantes, and Molière. Another formative influence was her romantic attachment to a beautiful and accomplished English lady who spent a few months in the neighborhood, and whose companionship lifted her, she says, “into just that atmosphere of European life to which I had before been tending.” When about thirteen years old, Margaret was sent to the boarding-school of the Misses Preston, in Groton, Mass., where she remained until 1825. It is stated that she was at one time a pupil in Dr. Park’s Boston school. That she was an indefatigable student, is shown by the record of her reading during the subsequent years passed at home. Her studies in German were especially deep.
In the spring of 1833, the family removed from Cambridge to Groton. Margaret was at this time much occupied in the tuition of the younger children. In 1835, she made the acquaintance of Miss Martineau, then travelling in America. Margaret had in this year a severe illness, from which it was feared that she could not recover. In October, her father died of cholera. “This death,” says Mrs. Howe, “besides the sorrow and perplexity which followed it, brought to Margaret a disappointment which seemed to her to bar the fulfilment of her highest hopes.” It had been planned that she should visit Europe, making the voyage in the company of Miss Martineau and the Farrars. It now seemed to her a duty to remain with her mother, and “not to encroach upon the fund necessary for the education of her brothers and sisters.” Her undeniable egotism only throws this act of self-sacrifice into higher relief.
In the autumn of 1836, she left Groton, to take a position in Mr. Alcott’s school, in Boston, at the same time teaching private classes. She worked hard this winter, giving instruction in German, Italian, Latin, and French, and reading with her pupils such books as ‘Faust’ and the ‘Divina Commedia.’ In the spring of 1837, she went to teach in the Greene Street school, Providence, a salary of $1,000 per annum being offered her. She remained there two years, doing valuable work, which added to her reputation; but Mr. Greeley, in his autobiography, states that she was not remunerated for her services.
In 1839, the Fuller family left Groton for Jamaica Plain, and in November of the same year returned to Cambridge. In this year was published Margaret’s translation of Eckerman’s ‘Conversations with Goethe.’ In 1840, she became the editor of The Dial, which she managed for two years, receiving $200 the first year, after which her salary was discontinued on account of the lack of funds. She contributed to this periodical, besides various critical papers, the article on The Great Lawsuit: Man versus Men, Woman versus Women, which was afterwards expanded into her Woman in the Nineteenth Century.
It was in the autumn of 1839 that Margaret began her famous Boston conversations, with a class of twenty-five. These classes were renewed in November of each year until 1844.
In 1841, she translated the ‘Letters of Gunderode and Bettine,’ but their publication does not appear to have been completed. In 1843, a trip to Lake Superior furnished her with material for her Summer on the Lakes, originally published in The Dial. A general impression exists that Miss Fuller connected herself with the Brook Farm experiment. It is an error; she was a visitor, not a resident, at Brook Farm.
In 1844, Margaret went to New York, to live with the Greeleys at Turtle Bay, becoming a constant contributor to the New York Tribune. In this year she published Woman in the Nineteenth Century, and the next, collected her Papers on Art and Literature in a volume.
On the 1st of August, 1846, Margaret Fuller sailed for Europe, in the company of her friends Mr. and Mrs. Marcus Spring, of Eagleswood, New Jersey. She went first to England, visited the Lake country, meeting Wordsworth and renewing her acquaintance with Harriet Martineau, travelled in Scotland, making the ascent of Ben Lomond with but one companion, and without a guide, an imprudence which cost her a night of dangerous exposure; returned to London, where she met Joanna Baillie, the Carlyles, and Mazzini; and went thence to Paris. There she saw George Sand, Chopin, and Rachel. She proceeded to Lyons, to Avignon, “where she waded through the snow to visit the tomb of Laura,” and to Marseilles, whence she sailed for Genoa, going next to Naples and to Rome. It was during this first stay in Rome, in the spring of 1847, that she became acquainted with the Marquis Ossoli, an officer of the Civic Guard. She continued her travels, visiting Florence, Ravenna, Venice, Milan, the Italian Lakes, and Switzerland. She returned to Rome in October, 1847. In December she was married to Ossoli; but for reasons involving the security of his paternal inheritance, it was agreed that the marriage should be a secret. In the following May, Margaret left Rome for the summer, passing a month at Aquila, and the rest of the time, until November, at Rieti, where it was possible for her husband to visit her occasionally. In September, 1848, their son, “Angiolino,” was born. In November, Margaret found it necessary to go to Rome, “to be near her husband, and also in order to be able to carry on the literary work upon which depended not only her own support, but also that of her child.” The little Angelo was left in the care of his Italian nurse. His mother at first anticipated an absence of a month only. She indeed returned to Rieti for a week in December, but “circumstances were too strong for her, and she was forced to remain three months in Rome without seeing him,” lying awake at night, studying to end this cruel separation. She was again in Rieti in March, and in April returned to Rome. And now began the siege of Rome by the French, and the mother, shut up in the city, saw her child no more until the summer.
Margaret took charge of one of the hospitals during the siege. To the writer, this period appears the noblest of her life. The formation of the strongest human ties had immeasurably deepened and softened her nature. She moved among the wounded and dying soldiers like the “Court Lady” of Mrs. Browning’s poem. She learned all the horror of wounds and death. She insisted on going with Ossoli to his post on the night when an attack was expected in that quarter; and meeting at the Angelus, they passed together to the supposed danger as to a religious service. During the days of suspense, Margaret made her secret known to her friends in Rome. As soon as the siege was ended, the father and mother hastened to Rieti, to find their child neglected and almost dying. They nursed him back to life and health, and the three passed together one happy winter in Florence, clouded only by pecuniary anxieties—for Ossoli had, by his patriotism, lost all. Margaret’s literary work at this time was a History of the Revolution in Italy, which perished with her.
Margaret, Ossoli, and the little Angelo sailed for America on May 17, 1850, in the barque Elizabeth, Captain Hasty. On the voyage the captain died of small-pox; Angelo took the disease, but recovered. On the morning of July 19th, the Elizabeth was wrecked in a sudden storm, striking on Fire Island beach. The sea never gave back Margaret and Ossoli. The baby Angelo was washed ashore, and lies buried at Mt. Auburn.
Margaret’s works, collected after her death, are in four volumes: Woman in the Nineteenth Century; Art, Literature, and the Drama; Abroad and at Home, and Life Without and Life Within.
A remarkable estimate of Margaret, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, published, among other extracts from his papers, by his son, has lately attracted much attention. The testimony of Hawthorne as to Margaret’s Italian life, of which he had no personal knowledge, has little value. But the conclusions of so keen a mind as to her character cannot be so easily dismissed; and this passage has been included among our extracts, that both sides of the shield may be seen. Certain of Hawthorne’s expressions go far to confirm the popular belief that Margaret’s character, as he saw it, furnished him with the hint or starting-point for his creation of Zenobia in ‘The Blithedale Romance.’
Lowell, in his stinging lines on Miranda, in ‘A Fable for Critics,’ speaks of her, “I-turn-the-crank-of-the-universe air,” and pronounces that “the whole of her being’s a capital I.” She is too often remembered thus, and only thus. Let us also picture her ministering in that “house of misery” where,—to quote lines written of another famous woman,—
“Slow, as in a dream of bliss,
The speechless sufferer turns to kiss
Her shadow, as it falls
Upon the darkening walls.”
Her early training.
Premature development.
Spectral illusions.
Somnambulism.
My father instructed me himself. The effect of this was so far good that, not passing through the hands of many ignorant and weak persons, as so many do at preparatory schools, I was put at once under discipline of considerable severity, and, at the same time, had a more than ordinarily high standard presented to me. My father was a man of business, even in literature; he had been a high scholar at college, and was warmly attached to all he had learned there, both from the pleasure he had derived in the exercise of his faculties and the associated memories of success and good repute. He was, beside, well read in French literature, and in English, a Queen Anne’s man. He hoped to make me the heir of all he knew, and of as much more as the income of his profession enabled him to give me means of acquiring. At the very beginning, he made one great mistake, more common, it is to be hoped, in the last generation, than the warning of physiologists will permit it to be with the next. He thought to gain time by bringing forward the intellect as early as possible. Thus, I had tasks given me, as many and various as the hours would allow, and on subjects beyond my age; with the additional disadvantage of reciting to him in the evening, after he returned from his office. As he was subject to many interruptions, I was often kept up till very late; and as he was a severe teacher, both from his habits of mind and his ambition for me, my feelings were kept on the stretch till the recitations were over. Thus, frequently I was sent to bed several hours too late, with nerves unnaturally stimulated. The consequence was a premature development of the brain, that made me a “youthful prodigy” by day, and by night a victim of spectral illusions, nightmare, and somnambulism, which, at the time, prevented the harmonious development of my bodily powers and checked my growth, while, later, they induced continual headache, weakness, and nervous affections of all kinds. As these again reacted on the brain, giving undue force to every thought and every feeling, there was finally produced a state of being both too active and too intense, which wasted my constitution.... No one understood this subject of health then. No one knew why this child, already kept up so late, was still unwilling to retire. My aunts cried out upon the “spoiled child, the most unreasonable child that ever was—if brother could but open his eyes to see it—who was never willing to go to bed.” They did not know that, so soon as the light was taken away, she seemed to see colossal faces advancing slowly towards her, the eyes dilating, and each feature swelling loathsomely as they come, till at last, when they were about to close upon her, she started up with a shriek which drove them away, but only to return when she lay down again.... No wonder the child arose and walked in her sleep, moaning all over the house, till once, when they heard her, and came and waked her, and she told what she had dreamed, her father sharply bid her “leave off thinking of such nonsense, or she would be crazy,” never knowing that he was himself the cause of all these horrors of the night.
Latin at six.
I was taught Latin and English grammar at the same time, and began to read Latin at six years old, after which, for some years, I read it daily.
Influence of her father’s character.
[My father] demanded accuracy and clearness in everything.... Trained to great dexterity in artificial methods, accurate, ready, with entire command of his resources, he had no belief in minds that listen, wait, and receive. He had no conception of the subtle and indirect motions of imagination and feeling. His influence on me was great, and opposed to the natural unfolding of my character, which was fervent, of strong grasp, and disposed to infatuation and self-forgetfulness.
Her first taste of Shakespeare.
Ever memorable is the day on which I first took a volume of Shakespeare in my hand to read. It was on a Sunday. This day was particularly set apart in our house.... This Sunday—I was only eight years old—I took from the book-shelf a volume lettered Shakespeare. It was not the first time I had looked at it, but before I had been deterred from attempting to read, by the broken appearance along the page, and preferred smooth narrative. But this time I held in my hand ‘Romeo and Juliet’ long enough to get my eye fastened to the page. It was a cold winter afternoon. I took the book to the parlor fire, and had there been seated an hour or two, when my father looked up and asked what I was reading so intently. “Shakespeare,” replied the child, merely raising her eye from the page. “‘Shakespeare’! That won’t do; that’s no book for Sunday; go put it away and take another.” I went as I was bid, but took no other. Returning to my seat, the unfinished story, the personages to whom I was but just introduced, thronged and burnt my brain. I could not bear it long; such a lure it was impossible to resist. I went and brought the book again. There were several guests present, and I had got half through the play before I again attracted attention. “What is that child about that she doesn’t hear a word that’s said to her?” quoth my aunt. “What are you reading?” said my father. “Shakespeare,” was again the reply, in a clear though somewhat impatient tone. “How?” said my father angrily; then, restraining himself before his guests, “Give me the book and go directly to bed.”
Home of the Fullers.
Margaret in the garden.
Our house, though comfortable, was very ugly, and in a neighborhood which I detested, every dwelling and its appurtenances having a mesquin and huddled look. I liked nothing about us except the tall graceful elms before the house, and the dear little garden behind. Our back-door opened on a high flight of steps, by which I went down to a green plot, much injured in my ambitious eyes by the presence of the pump and tool-house. This opened into a little garden, full of choice flowers and fruit trees, which was my mother’s delight and was carefully kept. Here I felt at home. A gate opened thence into the fields, a wooden gate made of boards, in a high unpainted board wall, and embowered in the clematis creeper. This gate I used to open to see the sunset heaven; beyond this black frame I did not step, for I liked to look at the deep gold behind it. How exquisitely happy I was in its beauty, and how I loved the silvery wreaths of my protecting vine! I never would pluck one of its flowers at that time, I was so jealous of its beauty, but often since I carry off wreaths of it from the wild wood, and it stands in nature to my mind as the emblem of domestic love.
Margaret Fuller: Autobiographical Romance published in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli,’ by R. W. Emerson, W. H. Channing and J. F. Clarke. Boston: Roberts Bros., 1874.
Margaret at thirteen.
My acquaintance with Margaret commenced in the year 1823, at Cambridge.... Margaret was then about thirteen,—a child in years, but so precocious in her mental and physical development, that she passed for eighteen or twenty. Agreeably to this estimate she had her place in society as a lady full-grown.
Personal appearance.
A characteristic trait.
When I recall her personal appearance, as it was then and for ten or twelve years subsequent to this, I have the idea of a blooming girl of a florid complexion and vigorous health, with a tendency to robustness, of which she was painfully conscious, and which, with little regard to hygienic principles, she endeavored to suppress or conceal, thereby preparing for herself much future suffering. With no pretensions to beauty then, or at any time, her face was one that attracted, that awakened a lively interest, that made one desirous of a nearer acquaintance. It was a face that fascinated, without satisfying. Never seen in repose, never allowing a steady perusal of its features, it baffled every attempt to judge the character by physiognomical induction. I said she had no pretentions to beauty. Yet she was not plain. She escaped the reproach of positive plainness, by her blonde and abundant hair, by her excellent teeth, by her sparkling, dancing, busy eyes, though usually half closed from near-sightedness, shot piercing glances at those with whom she conversed, and, most of all, by the very peculiar and graceful carriage of her head and neck, which all who knew her will remember as the most characteristic trait in her personal appearance.
Conversation.
In conversation she had already, at that early age, begun to distinguish herself, and made much the same impression in society that she did in after years, with the exception that as she advanced in life, she learned to control that tendency to sarcasm,—that disposition to “quiz,”—which was then somewhat excessive. It frightened shy young people from her presence, and made her, for a while, notoriously unpopular with the ladies of her circle.
Rev. F. H. Hedge: Communication in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Margaret at the Groton school.
At first her unlikeness to her companions was uncomfortable both to her and to them. Her exuberant fancy demanded outlets which the restraints of boarding-school life would not allow. The unwonted excitement produced by contact with other young people vented itself in fantastic acts and freaks amusing but tormenting. The art of living with one’s kind had not formed a part of Margaret’s home education. Her nervous system had already, no doubt, been seriously disturbed by overwork.
Some plays were devised for the amusement of the pupils, and in these Margaret found herself entirely at home. In each of these the principal part was naturally assigned her, and the superiority in which she delighted was thus recognized. These very triumphs, however, in the end led to her first severe mortification, and in this wise:—
The use of rouge had been permitted to the girls on the occasion of the plays; but Margaret was not disposed, when these were over, to relinquish the privilege, and continued daily to tinge her cheeks with artificial red. This freak suggested to her fellow-pupils an intended pleasantry, which awakened her powers of resentment to the utmost. Margaret came to the dinner-table, one day, to find on the cheeks of pupils and preceptress the crimson spot with which she had persisted in adorning her own. Suppressed laughter, in which even the servants joined, made her aware of the intended caricature. Deeply wounded, and viewing the somewhat personal joke in the light of an inflicted disgrace, Margaret’s pride did not forsake her. She summoned to her aid the fortitude which some of her Romans [Margaret’s love of Roman history is here alluded to] had shown in trying moments, and ate her dinner quietly without comment. When the meal was over she hastened to her own room, locked the door, and fell on the floor in convulsions. Here teachers and schoolfellows sorrowfully found her, and did their utmost to soothe her wounded feelings, and to efface by affectionate caresses the painful impression made by their inconsiderate fun.
Margaret recovered from this excitement, and took her place among her companions, but with an altered countenance and embittered heart. She had given up her gay freaks and amusing inventions, and devoted herself assiduously to her studies. But the offence which she had received rankled in her breast. As not one of her fellow-pupils had stood by her in her hour of need, she regarded them as all alike perfidious and ungrateful.... This morbid condition of mind led to a result still more unhappy. Masking her real resentment beneath a calm exterior, Margaret received the confidences of her schoolfellows and used their unguarded speech to promote discord among them.... This state of things probably became unbearable. Its cause was inquired into and soon found. A tribunal was held, and before the whole school assembled, Margaret was accused of calumny and falsehood, and, alas! convicted of the same. “At first she defended herself with self-possession and eloquence, but when she found that she could no more resist the truth, she suddenly threw herself down, dashing her head with all her force against the iron hearth, ... and was taken up senseless.”[7]
All present were, of course, greatly alarmed at this crisis, which was followed, on the part of Margaret, by days of hopeless and apathetic melancholy.... In the pain which she now felt, her former resentment against her schoolmates disappeared. She saw only her own offence, and saw it without hope of being able to pass beyond it.... A single friend was able to reach the seat of Margaret’s distemper, and to turn the currents of her life once more into a healthful channel. This lady, a teacher in the school, ... with the tact of true affection, drew the young girl from the contemplation of her own failure.
Julia Ward Howe: ‘Margaret Fuller.’ (Famous Women Series.) Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1883.
An “intolerable girl” at nineteen.
She told me what danger she had been in from the training her father had given her, and the encouragement to pedantry and rudeness which she derived from the circumstances of her youth. She told me that she was at nineteen the most intolerable girl that ever took a seat in a drawing-room. Her admirable candor, the philosophical way in which she took herself in hand, her genuine heart, her practical insight, and, no doubt, the natural influence of her attachment to myself, endeared her to me, while her powers, and her confidence in the use of them, led me to expect great things from her.
Harriet Martineau: ‘Autobiography.’ Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1877.
Her home at this time.
Margaret’s home at this time was in the mansion house formerly belonging to Judge Dana, a large, old-fashioned building, since taken down, standing about a quarter of a mile from the Cambridge Colleges, on the main road to Boston. The house stood back from the road, on rising ground which overlooked an extensive landscape. It was always a pleasure to Margaret to look at the outlines of the distant hills beyond the river, and to have before her this extent of horizon and sky. In the last year of her residence in Cambridge, her father moved to the old Brattle place, a still more ancient edifice, with large, old-fashioned garden and stately rows of linden trees. Here Margaret enjoyed the garden walks, which took the place of the extensive view.
Rev. James Freeman Clarke: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Mr. Channing’s first impression.
Margaret too intense.
Imperiousness.
Sentimentality.
I call to mind seeing, at the “Commencements” and “Exhibitions” of Harvard University, a girl, plain in appearance, but of dashing air, who was invariably the centre of a listening group, and kept their merry interest alive by sparkles of wit and incessant small talk.... About 1830 ... we often met in the social circles about Cambridge, and I began to observe her more nearly. At first her vivacity, decisive tone, downrightness and contempt of conventional standards, continued to repel. She appeared too intense in expression, action, emphasis, to be pleasing, and wanting in that retenue which we associate with delicate dignity. Occasionally, also, words flashed from her of such scathing satire, that prudence counselled the keeping at safe distance from a body so surcharged with electricity. Then again, there was an imperial—shall it be said imperious?—air, exacting deference to her judgments and loyalty to her behests, that prompted pride to retaliatory measures. She paid slight heed, moreover, to the trim palings of etiquette, but swept through the garden-beds and into the door-way of one’s confidence so cavalierly that a reserved person felt inclined to lock himself up in his sanctum. Finally, to the coolly-scanning eye, her friendship wore such a look of romantic exaggeration, that she seemed to walk enveloped in a shining fog of sentimentalism....
But soon I was charmed, unaware, with the sagacity of her sallies, the profound thoughts carelessly dropped by her on transient topics, the breadth and richness of culture manifested in her allusions or quotations, her easy comprehension of new views, her just discrimination, and, above all, her truthfulness. “Truth at all cost,” was plainly her ruling maxim. This it was that made her criticism so trenchant, her contempt of pretence so quick and stern, her speech so naked in frankness, her gaze so searching, her whole attitude so alert.
William Henry Channing: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Emerson’s first impression.
I still remember the first half hour of Margaret’s conversation. She was then twenty-six years old. She had a face and frame that would indicate fullness and tenacity of life. She was rather under the middle height; her complexion was fair, with strong, fair hair. She was then, as always, carefully and becomingly dressed, and of lady-like self-possession. For the rest, her appearance had nothing prepossessing. Her extreme plainness—a trick of incessantly opening and shutting her eyelids—the nasal tone of her voice—all repelled; and I said to myself, we shall never get far. It is to be said that Margaret made a disagreeable first impression on most persons, including those who became afterwards her best friends, to such an extreme that they did not wish to be in the same room with her. This was partly the effect of her manners, which expressed an overweening sense of power, and slight esteem of others, and partly the prejudice of her fame. She had a dangerous reputation for satire, in addition to her great scholarship.... I believe I fancied her too much interested in personal history; and her talk was a comedy in which dramatic justice was done to everybody’s foibles. I remember that she made me laugh more than I liked.... She had an incredible variety of anecdotes, and the readiest wit to give an absurd turn to whatever passed; and the eyes, which were so plain at first, soon swam with fun and drolleries, and the very tides of joy and superabundant life.
This rumor was much spread abroad, that she was sneering, scoffing, critical, disdainful of humble people, and of all but the intellectual. It was a superficial judgment. Her satire was only the pastime and necessity of her talent, the play of superabundant animal spirits.... Her mind presently disclosed many moods and powers, in successive platforms or terraces, each above each, that quite effaced this first impression, in the opulence of the following pictures.
Ralph Waldo Emerson: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Her circle of friends.
She was the centre of a group very different from each other, and whose only affinity consisted in their all being polarized by the strong attraction of her mind—all drawn toward herself. Some of her friends were young, gay, and beautiful; some old, sick, or studious. Some were children of the world, others pale scholars. Some were witty, others slightly dull. But all, in order to be Margaret’s friends, must be capable of seeking something—capable of some aspiration for the better. And how did she glorify life to all! All that was tame and common vanishing away in the picturesque light thrown over the most familiar things by her rapid fancy, her brilliant wit, her sharp insight, her creative imagination, by the inexhaustible resources of her knowledge, and the copious rhetoric which found words and images always apt and always ready. Even then she displayed almost the same marvellous gift of conversation, which afterwards dazzled all who knew her—with more, perhaps, of freedom, since she floated on the flood of our warm sympathies. Those who know Margaret only by her published writings, know her least; her notes and letters contain more of her mind; but it was only in conversation that she was perfectly free and at home.
Conversation.
Rev. James Freeman Clarke: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Her friends.
Passionate friendships.
She wore this circle of friends, when I first knew her, as a necklace of diamonds about her neck. They were so much to each other that Margaret seemed to represent them all and to know her, was to acquire a place with them. The confidences given her were their best, and she held them to them. She was an active, inspiring companion and correspondent, and all the art, the thought, and the nobleness in New England, seemed at that moment related to her, and she to it.... I am to add, that she gave herself to her friendships with an entireness not possible to any but a woman, with a depth possible to few women. Her friendships, as a girl with girls, as a woman with women, were not unmingled with passion, and had passages of romantic sacrifice and of ecstatic fusion, which I have heard with the ear, but could not trust my profane pen to report. There were also the ebbs and recoils from the other party—the mortal unequal to converse with an immortal—ingratitude, which was more truly incapacity, the collapse of overstrained affections and powers. At all events, it is clear that Margaret, later, grew more strict, and values herself with her friends on having the tie now “redeemed from all search after Eros.”
R. W. Emerson: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Personal appearance.
Two prominent traits.
Her temperament was predominantly what the physiologists would call nervous-sanguine; and the gray eye, rich brown hair, and light complexion, with the muscular and well-developed frame, bespoke delicacy balanced by vigor. Here was a sensitive, yet powerful being, fit at once for rapture or sustained effort, intensely active, prompt for adventure, firm for trial. She certainly had not beauty; yet the high arched dome of the head, the changeful expressiveness of every feature, and her whole air of mingled dignity and impulse, gave her a commanding charm. Especially characteristic were two physical traits. The first was a contraction of the eyelids almost to a point—a trick caught from near-sightedness—and then a sudden dilatation, till the iris seemed to emit flashes—an effect, no doubt, dependent on her highly-magnetized condition. The second was a singular pliancy of the vertebræ and muscles of the neck, enabling her by a mere movement to denote each varying emotion; in moments of tenderness, or pensive feeling, its curves were swan-like in grace, but when she was scornful or indignant, it contracted, and made swift turns like that of a bird of prey. Finally, in the animation yet abandon of Margaret’s attitude and look, were rarely blended the fiery force of northern, and the soft languor of southern races.
William Henry Channing: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Her liberality.
With a limited income and liberal wants, she was yet generous beyond the bounds of reason. Had the gold of California been all her own, she would have disbursed nine-tenths of it in eager and well-directed efforts to stay, or at least diminish, the flood of human misery. And it is but fair to state that the liberality she evinced was fully paralleled by the liberality she experienced at the hands of others. Had she needed thousands, and made her wants known, she had friends who would have cheerfully supplied her. I think few persons, in their pecuniary dealings, have experienced and evinced more of the better qualities of human nature than Margaret Fuller. She seemed to inspire those who approached her with that generosity which was a part of her nature.
Horace Greeley: Communication in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Self-esteem.
Margaret at first astonished and repelled us by a complacency that seemed the most assured since the days of Scaliger. She spoke, in the quietest manner, of the girls she had formed, the young men who owed everything to her, the fine companions she had long ago exhausted. In the coolest way she said to her friends, “I now know all the people worth knowing in America, and I find no intellect comparable to my own.”... I have heard that from the beginning of her life, she idealized herself as a sovereign. She told —— she early saw herself to be intellectually superior to those around her, and that for years she dwelt upon the idea, until she believed that she was not her parents’ child, but an European princess confided to their care. She remembered that when a little girl, she was walking one day under the apple trees with such an air and step that her father pointed her out to her sister, saying, “Incedit regina.”
A “mountainous me.”
It is certain that Margaret occasionally let slip, with all the innocence imaginable, some phrase betraying the presence of a rather mountainous ME, in a way to surprise those who knew her good sense. She could say, as if she were stating a scientific fact, in enumerating the merits of somebody, “He appreciates me.” There was something of hereditary organization in this, and something of unfavorable circumstance in the fact, that she had in early life no companion, and few afterwards, in her finer studies; but there was also an ebullient sense of power, which she felt to be in her, which as yet had found no right channels.
R. W. Emerson: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Humor.
Those who think of this accomplished woman as a mere bas bleu, a pedant, a solemn Minerva, should have heard the peals of laughter which her profuse and racy humor drew from old and young. The Easy Chair remembers stepping into Noah Gerrish’s West Roxbury omnibus one afternoon in Cornhill, in Boston, to drive out the nine miles to Brook Farm. The only other passenger was Miss Fuller, then freshly returned from her “summer on the lakes,” and never was a long, jolting journey more lightened and shortened than by her witty and vivid sketches of life and character. Her quick and shrewd observation is shown in the book, but the book has none of the comedy of the croquis of persons which her sparkling humor threw off, and which she too enjoyed with the utmost hilarity, joining heartily in the laughter, which was only increased by her sympathy with the amusement of her auditor.
Geo. Wm. Curtis, ‘Easy Chair,’ Harper’s Magazine, March, 1882.
Ill health.
Alleged second sight.
She was all her life-time the victim of disease and pain. She read and wrote in bed, and believed that she could understand anything better when she was ill. Pain acted like a girdle to give tension to her powers. A lady who was with her one day during a terrible attack of nervous headache, which made Margaret totally helpless, assured me that Margaret was yet in the finest vein of humor, and kept those who were assisting her in a strange, painful excitement, between laughing and crying, by perpetual brilliant sallies. There were other peculiarities of habit and power. When she turned her head on one side she alleged she had second sight, like St. Francis. These traits or predispositions made her a willing listener to all the uncertain science of mesmerism and its goblin brood, which have been rife in recent years.
It was soon evident that there was somewhat a little pagan about her; that she had some faith more or less distinct in a fate, and in a guardian genius; that her fancy or her pride, had played with her religion. She had a taste for gems, ciphers, talismans, omens, coincidences, and birth-days. She had a special love for the planet Jupiter, and a belief that the month of September was inauspicious to her. She never forgot that her name, Margarita, signified a pearl.... She chose carbuncle for her own stone, and when a dear friend was to give her a gem, this was the one selected.... She was wont to put on her carbuncle, a bracelet or some selected gem, to write letters to certain friends. One of her friends she coupled with the onyx, another in a decided way with the amethyst.... Coincidences, good and bad, contretemps, seals, ciphers, mottoes, omens, anniversaries, names, dreams, are all of a certain importance to her.... She soon surrounded herself with a little mythology of her own.
She had a series of anniversaries, which she kept. Her seal-ring of the flying Mercury had its legend.
R. W. Emerson: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Her love of children.
Her love of children was one of her most prominent characteristics. The pleasure she enjoyed in their society was fully counterpoised by that she imparted. To them she was never lofty, nor reserved, nor mystical; for no one had ever a more perfect faculty for entering into their sports, their feelings, their enjoyments. She could narrate almost any story in language level to their capacities, and in a manner calculated to bring out their hearty, and often boisterously-expressed delight. She possessed marvellous powers of observation and imitation, or mimicry; and had she been attracted to the stage, would have been the first actress America has produced, whether in tragedy or comedy. Her faculty of mimicking was not needed to commend her to the hearts of children, but it had its effects in increasing the fascinations of her genial nature and heart-felt joy in their society. To amuse and instruct was an achievement for which she would readily forego any personal object; and her intuitive perception of the toys, games, stories, rhymes, etc., best adapted to arrest and enchain their attention was unsurpassed.
Horace Greeley: Communication in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
A welcome guest.
She was everywhere a welcome guest. The houses of her friends in town and country were open to her, and every hospitable attention eagerly offered. Her arrival was a holiday, and so was her abode. She stayed a few days, often a week, more seldom a month, and all tasks that could be suspended were put aside to catch the favorable hour, in walking, riding, or boating, to talk with this joyful guest, who brought wit, anecdotes, love-stories, tragedies, oracles with her, and with her broad web of relations to so many fine friends, seemed like the queen of some parliament of love, who carried the key to all confidences, and to whom every question had been finally referred.
The day was never long enough to exhaust her opulent memory, and I, who knew her intimately from July, 1836, till August, 1846, when she sailed for Europe, never saw her without surprise at her new powers.
R. W. Emerson: ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Margaret’s account of her Boston Conversation Class.
My class is prosperous. I was so fortunate as to rouse, at once, the tone of simple earnestness, which can scarcely, when once awakened, cease to vibrate. All seem in a glow, and quite as receptive as I wish.... There are about twenty-five members, and every one, I believe, full of interest.... The first day’s topic was, the genealogy of heaven and earth; then the Will (Jupiter); the Understanding, (Mercury); the second day’s, the celestial inspiration of genius, perception and transmission of divine law (Apollo); the terrene of inspiration, the impassioned abandonment of genius (Bacchus).
Of the thunderbolt, the caduceus, the ray, and the grape, having disposed as well as might be, we came to the wave, and the sea-shell it moulds to Beauty, and Love her parent and her child.
I assure you, there is more Greek than Bostonian spoken at the meetings; and we may have pure honey of Hymettus to give you yet.
Margaret Fuller: Letter to R. W. Emerson, November, 1839, in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
A pupil’s account.
Margaret used to come to the conversations very well dressed, and, altogether, looked sumptuously. She began them with an exordium, in which she gave her leading views; and those exordiums were excellent, from the elevation of the tone, the ease and flow of discourse, and from the tact with which they were kept aloof from any excess; and from the gracefulness with which they were brought down, at last, to a possible level for others to follow. She made a pause, and invited the others to come in. Of course, it was not easy for every one to venture her remark, after an eloquent discourse, and in the presence of twenty superior women, who were all inspired. But whatever was said, Margaret knew how to seize the good meaning of it with hospitality, and to make the speaker feel glad, and not sorry, that she had spoken.
—— ——: Communication quoted in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Miss Martineau’s view of the Boston Class.
While she was living and moving in an ideal world, talking in private and discoursing in public about the most fanciful and shallow conceits which the transcendentalists took for philosophy, she looked down upon persons who acted instead of talking finely, and devoted their fortunes, their peace, their repose, and their very lives to the preservation of the principles of the republic. While Margaret Fuller and her adult pupils sat “gorgeously dressed,” talking about Mars and Venus, Plato and Goethe, and fancying themselves the elect of the earth in intellect and refinement, the liberties of the republic were running out as fast as they could go, at a breach which another sort of elect persons were devoting themselves to repair: and my complaint against the “gorgeous” pedants was that they regarded their preservers as hewers of wood and drawers of water, and their work as a less vital one than the pedantic orations which were spoiling a set of well-meaning women in a pitiable way.
Harriet Martineau: ‘Autobiography.’
Margaret as a member of the Greeley household.
Though we were members of the same household, we scarcely met save at breakfast; and my time and thoughts were absorbed in duties and cares, which left me little leisure or inclination for the amenities of social intercourse. Fortune seemed to delight in placing us two in relations of friendly antagonism, or rather, to develop all possible contrasts in our ideas and social habits. She was naturally inclined to luxury and a good appearance before the world. My pride, if I had any, delighted in bare walls and rugged fare. She was addicted to strong tea and coffee, both which I rejected and contemned, even in the most homœopathic dilutions; while, my general health being so sound, and hers sadly impaired, I could not fail to find in her dietetic habits the causes of her almost habitual illness; and once, while we were still barely acquainted, when she came to the breakfast-table with a very severe headache, I was tempted to attribute it to her strong potations of the Chinese leaf the night before. She told me quite frankly that she “declined being lectured on the food or beverage she saw fit to take,” which was but reasonable in one who had arrived at her maturity of intellect and fixedness of habits. So the subject was thenceforth tacitly avoided between us; but, though words were suppressed, looks and involuntary gestures could not so well be; and an utter divergency of views on this and kindred themes created a perceptible distance between us.
Horace Greeley: Communication in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Her description of the Greeley house.
This place is, to me, entirely charming; it is so completely in the country, and all around is so bold and free. It is two miles or more from the thickly-settled parts of New York, but omnibuses and cars give me constant access to the city, and, while I can readily see what and whom I will, I can command time and retirement. Stopping on the Harlem road, you enter a lane nearly a quarter of a mile long, and going by a small brook and pond that locks in the place, and ascending a slightly rising ground, get sight of the house, which, old-fashioned and of mellow tint, fronts on a flower-garden filled with shrubs, large vines and trim box-borders. On both sides of the house are beautiful trees.... Passing through a wide hall, you come out upon a piazza, stretching the whole length of the house, where one can walk in all weathers; and thence by a step or two, on a lawn, with picturesque masses of rocks, shrubs and trees, overlooking the East River.
Margaret Fuller: Letter in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Contributions to the “Tribune.”
Her earlier contributions to the Tribune were not her best, and I did not at first prize her aid so highly as I afterwards learned to do. She wrote always freshly, vigorously, but not always clearly; for her full and intimate acquaintance with continental literature, especially German, seemed to have marred her felicity and readiness of expression in her mother tongue. While I never met another woman who conversed more freely or lucidly, the attempt to commit her thoughts to paper seemed to induce a singular embarrassment and hesitation. She could write only when in the vein; and this needed often to be waited for through several days, while the occasion sometimes required an immediate utterance. The new book must be reviewed before other journals had thoroughly dissected and discussed it, else the ablest critique would command no general attention, and perhaps be, by the greater number, unread. That the writer should wait the flow of inspiration, or at least the recurrence of elasticity of spirits and relative health of body, will not seem unreasonable to the general reader; but to the inveterate hack-horse of the daily press, accustomed to write at any time, or on any subject, and with a rapidity limited only by the physical ability to form the requisite pen-strokes, the notion of waiting for a brighter day or a happier frame of mind, appears fantastic and absurd. He would as soon think of waiting for a change in the moon. Hence, while I realized that her contributions evinced rare intellectual wealth and force, I did not value them as I should have done had they been written more fluently and promptly. They often seemed to make their appearance “a day after the fair.”
Horace Greeley: Communication in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Carlyle’s first impression of Margaret Fuller.
Yesternight there came a bevy of Americans from Emerson, one Margaret Fuller, the chief figure of them, a strange, lilting, lean old maid, not nearly such a bore as I expected.
Thomas Carlyle: Letter in ‘Thomas Carlyle: A History of his Life in London,’ by James Anthony Froude. New York: Chas. Scribner’s Sons, 1884.
Free translation of the above.
Miss Fuller came duly as you announced; was welcomed for your sake and her own. A high-soaring, clear, enthusiast soul; in whose speech there is much of all that one wants to find in speech. A sharp, subtle intellect too; and less of that shoreless Asiatic dreaminess than I have sometimes met with in her writings.... Her dialect is very vernacular,—extremely exotic in the London climate.
Thomas Carlyle: Letter to R. W. Emerson, December, 1846. ‘The Correspondence of Thomas Carlyle and Ralph Waldo Emerson’: Supplementary Letters. Boston: Ticknor & Co., 1886.
Account of her visit to Ambleside.
Margaret Fuller, who had been, in spite of certain mutual repulsions, an intimate acquaintance of mine in America, came to Ambleside.... I gave her and the excellent friends with whom she was travelling, the best welcome I could. My house was full: but I got lodgings for them, made them welcome as guests, and planned excursions for them. Her companions evidently enjoyed themselves; and Margaret Fuller as evidently did not, except when she could harangue the drawing-room party without the interruption of any other voice within its precincts. There were other persons present, at least as eminent as herself, to whom we wished to listen; but we were willing that all should have their turn: and I am sure I met her with every desire for friendly intercourse. She presently left off conversing with me, however; while I, as hostess, had to see that my other guests were entertained according to their various tastes. During our excursion in Langdale she scarcely spoke to anybody, and not at all to me; and when we afterwards met in London, when I was setting off for the East, she treated me with the contemptuous benevolence which it was her wont to bestow on common place people. I was, therefore, not surprised when I became acquainted, presently after, with her own account of the matter. She told her friends that she had been bitterly disappointed in me. It had been a great object with her to see me, after my recovery by mesmerism, to enjoy the exaltation and spiritual development which she concluded I must have derived from my excursions in the spiritual world; but she had found me in no way altered by it; no one could have discovered that I had been mesmerised at all; and I was so thoroughly common place that she had no pleasure in intercourse with me.
Harriet Martineau: ‘Autobiography.’
A true heroic mind.
Margaret is an excellent soul: in real regard with both of us here. Since she went, I have been reading some of her Papers in a new Book we have got; greatly superior to all I knew before; in fact the undeniable utterances (now first undeniable to me) of a true heroic mind;—altogether unique, so far as I know, among the Writing Women of this generation; rare enough, too, God knows, among the Writing Men. She is very narrow, sometimes; but she is truly high.
Thomas Carlyle: Letter to Emerson, 2d March, 1847. ‘Correspondence of T. Carlyle and R. W. Emerson,’ 1834-1872. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co., 1883.
Margaret in Italy.
“Not the same person.”
During the month of November, 1847, we arrived in Rome, purposing to spend the winter there. At that time, Margaret was living in the house of the Marchesa ——, in the Corso, ultimo piano. Her rooms were pleasant and cheerful, with a certain air of elegance and refinement, but they had not a sunny exposure, that all-essential requisite for health, during the damp Roman winter. Margaret suffered from ill health this winter, and she afterwards attributed it mainly to the fact, that she had not the sun. As soon as she heard of our arrival, she stretched forth a friendly, cordial hand, and greeted us most warmly. She gave us great assistance in our search for convenient lodgings, and we were soon happily established near her. Our intercourse was henceforth most frequent and intimate, and knew no cloud nor coldness. Daily we were much with her, and daily we felt more sensible of the worth and value of our friend. To me she seemed so unlike what I had thought her to be in America, that I continually said, “How have I misjudged you; you are not at all such a person as I took you to be.” To this she replied, “I am not the same person, but in many respects another; my life has new channels now, and how thankful I am that I have been able to come out into larger interests—but, partly, you did not know me at home in the true light.” It was true, that I had not known her much personally, when in Boston; but through her friends, who were mine also, I had learned to think of her as a person on intellectual stilts, with a large share of arrogance, and little sweetness of temper. How unlike to this was she now! So delicate, so simple, confiding and affectionate; with a true womanly heart and soul, sensitive and generous, and, what was to me a still greater surprise, possessed of so broad a charity, that she could cover with its mantle the faults and defects of all about her.
The Marquis Ossoli.
We soon became acquainted with the young Marquis Ossoli, and met him frequently at Margaret’s rooms. He appeared to be of a reserved and gentle nature, with quiet, gentleman-like manners, and there was something melancholy in the expression of his face, which made one desire to know more of him. In figure, he was tall, and of slender frame, with dark hair and eyes; we judged that he was about thirty years of age, possibly younger.
Mrs. Story: Communication in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
The meeting of Margaret and Ossoli.
Our meeting was singular—fateful, I may say. Very soon he offered me his hand through life, but I never dreamed I should take it. I loved him, and felt very unhappy to leave him; but the connection seemed so every way unfit, I did not hesitate a moment. He, however, thought I should return to him, as I did. I acted upon a strong impulse, and could not analyze at all what passed in my mind. I neither rejoice nor grieve—for bad or for good, I acted out my character.
Her suffering during the siege of Rome.
During the siege of Rome, I could not see my little boy. What I endured at that time, in various ways, not many would survive.... I went, every day, to wait, in the crowd, for letters about him. Often they did not come. I saw blood that had streamed on the wall where Ossoli was. I have a piece of a bomb that burst close to him. I sought solace in tending the suffering men; but when I beheld the beautiful, fair young men bleeding to death, or mutilated for life, I felt the woe of all the mothers who had nursed each to that full flower, to see them thus cut down. I felt the consolation, too, for those youths died worthily.
Margaret Fuller Ossoli: Letter to her Sister, in ‘Memorials of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Margaret in the hospitals.
Margaret had ... the entire charge of one of the hospitals, and was the assistant of the Princess Belgioioso, in charge of “dei Pellegrini,” where, during the first day, they received seventy wounded men, French and Romans. Night and day, Margaret was occupied, and, with the princess, so ordered and disposed the hospitals, that their conduct was truly admirable. All the work was skilfully divided, so that there was no confusion or hurry, and, from the chaotic condition in which they had been left by the priests—who previously had charge of them—they brought them to a state of perfect regularity and discipline. Of money, they had very little, and they were obliged to give their time and thoughts, in its place. From the Americans in Rome, they raised a subscription for the aid of the wounded of either party; but, besides this, they had scarcely any means to use. I have walked through the wards with Margaret, and seen how comforting was her presence to the poor suffering men. “How long will the Signora stay?” “When will the Signora come again?” they eagerly asked. For each one’s particular tastes she had a care: to one she carried books; to another she told the news of the day; and listened to another’s oft-repeated tale of wrongs, as the best sympathy she could give. They raised themselves up on their elbows, to get the last glimpse of her as she was going away.
Mrs. Story: Communication in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Margaret’s description of Ossoli.
He is not in any respect such a person as people in general would expect to find with me. He had no instructor except an old priest, who entirely neglected his education; and of all that is contained in books he is absolutely ignorant, and he has no enthusiasm of character. On the other hand, he has excellent practical sense; has been a judicious observer of all that passed before his eyes; has a nice sense of duty, which, in its unfailing, minute activity, may put most enthusiasts to shame; a very sweet temper, and great native refinement. His love for me has been unswerving and most tender.... Amid many ills and cares, we have had much joy together, in the sympathy with natural beauty—with our child—with all that is innocent and sweet.
I do not know whether he will always love me so well, for I am the elder, and the difference will become, in a few years, more perceptible than now. But life is so uncertain, and it is so necessary to take good things with their limitations, that I have not thought it worth while to calculate too curiously.
The little Angelo.
What shall I say of my child? All might seem hyperbole, even to my dearest mother. In him I find satisfaction, for the first time, to the deep wants of my heart.... He is a fair child, with blue eyes and light hair; very affectionate, graceful, and sportive. He was baptized, in the Roman Catholic Church, by the name of Angelo Eugene Philip, for his father, grandfather, and my brother.
Margaret Fuller Ossoli: Letter to her mother, in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
Their last spring in Florence.
I passed about six weeks in the city of Florence, during the months of March and April, 1850. During the whole of that time Madame Ossoli was residing in a house at the corner of the Via della Misericordia and the Piazza Santa Maria Novelle. This house is one of those large, well-built, modern houses that show strangely in the streets of the stately Tuscan city. But if her rooms were less characteristically Italian, they were the more comfortable, and, though small, had a quiet, home-like air.... I saw her frequently at these rooms, where, surrounded by her books and papers, she used to devote her mornings to her literary labors. Once or twice I called in the morning, and found her quite immersed in manuscripts and journals. Her evenings were passed usually in the society of her friends, at her own rooms, or at theirs.... [Ossoli] seemed quite absorbed in his wife and child. I cannot remember ever to have found Madame Ossoli alone, on those evenings when she remained at home. Her husband was always with her. The picture of their room rises clearly on my memory. A small, square room, sparingly, yet sufficiently furnished, with polished floor and frescoed ceiling, and, drawn up closely before the cheerful fire, an oval table, on which stood a monkish lamp of brass, with depending chains that support quaint classic cups for the olive oil. There, seated beside his wife, I was sure to find the Marchese, reading from some patriotic book, and dressed in the dark brown, red-corded coat of the Guardia Civica, which it was his melancholy pleasure to wear at home.
W. H. Hurlbut: Communication in ‘Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli.’
The homeward voyage.
Why did she choose a merchant vessel from Leghorn? Why one which was destined to carry in its hold the heavy marble of Powers’s Greek Slave? She was warned against this, was uncertain in her own mind, and disturbed by presages of ill. But economy was very necessary to her at the moment. The vessel chosen, the barque Elizabeth, was new, strong and ably commanded. Margaret had seen and made friends with the captain, Hasty by name, and his wife. Horace Sumner [Charles Sumner’s youngest brother, of whom they had seen much in Florence during the winter], was to be their fellow-passenger, and a young Italian girl, Celeste Paolini, engaged to help in the care of the little boy. These considerations carried the day.
Margaret’s forebodings.
Just before leaving Florence, Margaret received letters, the tenor of which would have enabled her to remain longer in Italy. Ossoli remembered the warning of a fortune-teller, who in his childhood had told him to beware of the sea. Margaret wrote of omens which gave her “a dark feeling.” She had “a vague expectation of some crisis,” she knows not what.... She prays fervently that she may not lose her boy at sea, “either by unsolaced illness, or amid the howling waves; or if so, that Ossoli, Angelo, and I may go together, and that the anguish may be brief.”
These presentiments, strangely prophetic, returned upon Margaret with so much force that on the very day appointed for sailing, the 17th of May, she stood at bay before them for an hour, unable to decide whether she should go or stay. But she had appointed a general meeting with her family in July, and had positively engaged her passage in the barque. Fidelity to these engagements prevailed with her.... In spite of fears and omens, ... she went on board, and the voyage began in smooth tranquillity....
On Thursday, July 18th, the Elizabeth was off the Jersey coast, in thick weather, the wind blowing east of south. The former mate was now the captain. [Captain Hasty had died on the voyage.] Wishing to avoid the coast, he sailed east-north-east, thinking presently to take a pilot, and pass Sandy Hook by favor of the wind. At night he promised his passengers an early arrival in New York. They retired to rest in good spirits, having previously made all the usual preparations for going on shore.
The wreck of the “Elizabeth.”
By nine o’clock that evening the breeze had become a gale, by midnight a dangerous storm. The commander, casting the lead from time to time, was without apprehension, having, it is supposed, mistaken his locality, and miscalculated the speed of the vessel, which, under close-reefed sails, was nearing the sandbars of Long Island. Here, on Fire Island beach, she struck, at four o’clock on the morning of July 19th. The main and mizzen masts were promptly cut away, but the heavy marble had broken through the hold, and the waters rushed in. The bow of the vessel stuck fast in the sand, her stern swung around, and she lay with her broadside exposed to the breakers, which swept over her with each returning rise—a wreck to be saved by no human power.
The passengers sprang from their berths, aroused by the dreadful shock, and guessing but too well its import. Then came the crash of the falling masts, the roar of the waves, as they shattered the cabin skylight and poured down into the cabin, extinguishing the lights. These features of the moment are related as recalled by Mrs. Hasty, sole survivor of the passengers.... The leeward side of the cabin was already under water, but its windward side still gave shelter, and here, for three hours, the passengers took refuge, their feet braced against the long table. The baby shrieked, as well he might, with the sudden fright, the noise and chill of the water. But his mother wrapped him as warmly as she could, and in her agony cradled him on her bosom and sang him to sleep. The girl Celeste was beside herself with terror; and here we find recorded a touching trait of Ossoli, who soothed her with encouraging words, and touched all hearts with his fervent prayer.... The crew had retired to the top-gallant forecastle, and the passengers, hearing nothing of them, supposed them to have left the ship. By seven o’clock it became evident that the cabin could not hold together much longer, and Mrs. Hasty, looking from the door for some way of escape, saw a figure standing by the foremast, the space between being constantly swept by the waves. She tried in vain to make herself heard; but the mate, Davis, coming to the door of the forecastle, saw her and immediately ordered the men to go to her assistance. So great was the danger of doing this, that only two of the crew were willing to accompany him. The only refuge for the passengers was now in the forecastle, which, from its position and strength of construction, would be likely to resist longest the violence of the waves.
By great effort and coolness the mate and his two companions reached the cabin; and rescued all in it from the destruction so nearly impending.... From their new position, through the spray and rain they could see the shore, some hundreds of yards off. Men were seen on the beach, but there was nothing to indicate that an attempt would be made to save them. At nine o’clock it was thought that some one of the crew might possibly reach the shore by swimming, and, once there, make some effort to send them aid. Two of the sailors succeeded in doing this. Horace Sumner sprang after them, but sank unable to struggle with the waves. A last device was that of a plank, with handles of rope attached, upon which the passengers in turn might seat themselves, while a sailor, swimming behind, should guide their course. Mrs. Hasty, young and resolute, led the way in this experiment, the stout mate helping her, and landing her out of the very jaws of death.... Oh that Margaret had been willing that the same means should be employed to bring her and hers to land! Again and again, to the very last moment, she was urged to try this way of escape, uncertain, but the only one.... The day wore on; the tide turned. The wreck would not outlast its return. The commanding officer made one last appeal to Margaret before leaving his post. To stay, he told her, was certain and speedy death, as the ship must soon break up. He promised to take her child with him, and to give Celeste, Ossoli, and herself each the aid of an able seaman. Margaret still refused to be parted from child or husband. The crew were then told to “save themselves,” and all but four jumped overboard.... By three o’clock in the afternoon the breaking-up was well in progress. Cabin and stern disappeared beneath the waves, and the forecastle filled with water. The little group now took refuge on the deck, and stood about the foremast. Three able-bodied seamen remained with them, and one old sailor homeward-bound for good and all. The deck now parted from the hull, and rose and fell with the sweep of the waves. The final crash must come in a few minutes. The steward now took Angelo in his arms, promising to save him or die. At this very moment the foremast fell, and with it disappeared the deck and those who stood on it. The steward and the child were washed ashore soon after, dead, though not yet cold.... Celeste and Ossoli held for a moment by the rigging, but were swept off by the next wave. Margaret, last seen at the foot of the mast, in her white night-dress, with her long hair hanging about her shoulders, is thought to have sunk at once.
Julia Ward Howe: ‘Margaret Fuller.’
Miss Martineau’s view of Margaret’s career.
Her life in Boston.
“The noble last period of her life.”
How it might have been with her, if she had come to Europe in 1836, I have often speculated. As it was, her life in Boston was little short of destructive. I need but refer to the memoir of her. In the most pedantic age of society in her own country, and in its most pedantic city, she who was just beginning to rise out of pedantic habits of thought and speech relapsed most grievously. She was not only completely spoiled in conversation and manners; she made false estimates of the objects and interests of human life. She was not content with pursuing, and inducing others to pursue, a metaphysical idealism, destructive of all genuine feeling and sound activity. She mocked at objects and efforts of a higher order than her own, and despised those who, like myself, could not adopt her scale of valuation. All this might have been spared, a world of mischief saved, and a world of good effected, if she had found her heart a dozen years sooner, and in America instead of Italy. It is the most grievous loss I have almost ever known in private history—the deferring of Margaret Fuller’s married life so long. The noble last period of her life is, happily, on record as well as the earlier. My friendship with her was in the interval between her first and second stages of pedantry and forwardness; and I saw her again under all the disadvantages of the confirmed bad manners and self-delusions which she brought from home. The ensuing period redeemed all; and I regard her American life as a reflexion more useful than agreeable, of the prevalent social spirit of her time and place; and the Italian life as the true revelation of the tender and high-souled woman, who had till then been as curiously concealed from herself as from others.
Harriet Martineau: ‘Autobiography.’
Hawthorne’s analysis.
“A great humbug.”
Margaret Fuller was a person anxious to try all things, and fill up her experience in all directions; she had a strong and coarse nature which she had done her utmost to refine, with infinite pains; but of course it could only be superficially changed. The solution of the riddle lies in this direction, nor does one’s conscience revolt at the idea of thus solving it, for (at least, this is my own experience) Margaret has not left in the hearts and minds of those who knew her any deep witness of her integrity and purity. She was a great humbug—of course, with much talent and much moral reality, or else she could never have been so great a humbug. But she had stuck herself full of borrowed qualities, which she chose to provide herself with, but which had no root in her.
There never was such a tragedy as her whole story. The sadder and sterner, because so much of the ridiculous was mixed up with it, and because she could bear any thing better than to be ridiculous. It was such an awful joke, that she should have resolved—in all sincerity, no doubt—to make herself the greatest, wisest, best woman of the age. And to that end she set to work on her strong, heavy, unpliable, and, in many respects, defective and evil nature, and adorned it with a mosaic of admirable qualities, such as she chose to possess, putting in here a splendid talent and there a moral excellence, and polishing each separate piece, and the whole together, till it seemed to shine afar and dazzle all who saw it. She took credit to herself for having been her own Redeemer, if not her own Creator; and indeed she is far more a work of art than any of Mozier’s statues. But she was not working on an inanimate substance, like marble or clay; there was something within her that she could not possibly come at, to re-create or refine it; and by and by this rude old potency bestirred itself, and undid all her labor in the twinkling of an eye. On the whole, I do not know but I like her the better for it; because she proved herself a very woman after all.
Nathaniel Hawthorne: Extract from Roman Journal, in ‘Nathaniel Hawthorne and His Wife,’ a Biography, by Julian Hawthorne. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co., 1885.
“A strange tragedy.”
Poor Margaret, that is a strange tragedy that history of hers; and has many traits of the heroic in it, though it is wild as the prophecy of a Sibyl. Such a pre-determination to eat this big universe as her oyster or her egg, and to be absolute empress of all height and glory in it that her heart could conceive, I have not before seen in any human soul. Her “mountain me” indeed: but her courage, too, is high and clear, her chivalrous nobleness indeed is great; her veracity, in its deepest sense, à toute épreuve.
Thomas Carlyle: Letter to Emerson, 7th May, 1852. ‘Correspondence of T. Carlyle and R. W. Emerson.’