* * * * *
May10.—My head is full of boxes, bundles, phials of medicine, and pots of jelly. I never thought much about a journey for myself, except to try and return all the things, books especially, which I had been borrowing; but about my child I feel anxious lest I should not take what is necessary for his health and comfort on so long a voyage, where omissions are irreparable. The unpropitious, rainy weather delays us now from day to day, as our ship; the Elizabeth,—(look out for news of shipwreck!) cannot finish taking in her cargo till come one or two good days.
I leave Italy with most sad and unsatisfied heart,—hoping, indeed, to return, but fearing that may not be permitted in my "cross-biased" life, till strength of feeling and keenness of perception be less than during these bygone rich, if troubled, years!
I can say least to those whom I prize most. I am so sad and weary, leaving Italy, that I seem paralyzed.
Ship Elizabeth, off Gibraltar, June8, 1850.
My Dear M——: You will, I trust, long ere receiving this, have read my letter from Florence, enclosing one to my mother, informing her under what circumstances I had drawn on you through ——, and mentioning how I wished the bill to be met in case of any accident to me on my homeward course. That course, as respects weather, has been thus far not unpleasant; but the disaster that has befallen us is such as I never dreamed of. I had taken passage with Captain Hasty—one who seemed to me one of the best and most high-minded of our American men. He showed the kindest interest in us. His wife, an excellent woman, was with him. I thought, during the voyage, if safe and my child well, to have as much respite from care and pain as sea-sickness would permit. But scarcely was that enemy in some measure quelled, when the captain fell sick. At first his disease presented the appearance of nervous fever. I was with him a great deal; indeed, whenever I could relieve his wife from a ministry softened by great love and the courage of womanly heroism: The last days were truly terrible with disgusts and fatigues; for he died, we suppose,—no physician has been allowed to come on board to see the body,—of confluent small-pox. I have seen, since we parted, great suffering, but nothing physical to be compared to this, where the once fair and expressive mould of man is thus lost in corruption before life has fled. He died yesterday morning, and was buried in deep water, the American Consul's barge towing out one from this ship which bore the body, about six o'clock. It was Sunday. A divinely calm, glowing afternoon had succeeded a morning of bleak, cold wind. You cannot think how beautiful the whole thing was:—the decent array and sad reverence of the sailors; the many ships with their banners flying; the stern pillar of Hercules all bathed in roseate vapor; the little white sails diving into the blue depths with that solemn spoil of the good man, so still, when he had been so agonized and gasping as the last sun stooped. Yes, it was beautiful; but how dear a price we pay for the poems of this world! We shall now be in quarantine a week; no person permitted to come on board until it be seen whether disease break out in other cases. I have no good reason to think it willnot; yet I do not feel afraid. Ossoli has had it; so he is safe. The baby is, of course, subject to injury. In the earlier days, before I suspected small-pox, I carried him twice into the sick-room, at the request of the captain, who was becoming fond of him. He laughed and pointed; he did not discern danger, but only thought it odd to see the old friend there in bed. It is vain by prudence to seek to evade the stern assaults of destiny. I submit. Should all end well, we shall be in New York later than I expected; but keep a look-out. Should we arrive safely, I should like to see a friendly face. Commend me to my dear friends; and, with most affectionate wishes that joy and peace may continue to dwell in your house, adieu, and love as you can,
Your friend, MARGARET.
Legation des Etats Unis d'Amerique, Rome, May10, 1851.
Madame: I beg leave to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the —— ult., and to express my regret that the weak state of my eyesight has prevented me from giving it an earlier reply.
In compliance with your request, I have the honor to state, succinctly, the circumstances connected with my acquaintance with the late Madame Ossoli, your deceased sister, during her residence in Rome.
In the month of April, 1849, Rome, as you are no doubt aware, was placed in a state of siege by the approach of the French army. It was filled at that time with exiles and fugitives who had been contending for years, from Milan in the north to Palermo in the south, for the republican cause; and when the gates were closed, it was computed that there were, of Italians alone, thirteen thousand refugees within the walls of the city, all of whom had been expelled from adjacent states, till Rome became their last rallying-point, and, to many, their final resting-place. Among these was to be seen every variety of age, sentiment, and condition,—striplings and blanched heads; wild, visionary enthusiasts; grave, heroic men, who, in the struggle for freedom, had ventured all, and lost all; nobles and beggars; bandits, felons and brigands. Great excitement naturally existed; and, in the general apprehension which pervaded all classes, that acts of personal violence and outrage would soon be committed, the foreign residents, especially, found themselves placed in an alarming situation.
On the 30th of April the first engagement took place between the French and Roman troops, and in a few days subsequently I visited several of my countrymen, at their request, to concert measures for their safety. Hearing, on that occasion, and for the first time, of Miss Fuller's presence in Rome, and of her solitary mode of life, I ventured to call upon her, and offer my services in any manner that might conduce to her comfort and security. She received me with much kindness, and thus an acquaintance commenced. Her residence on the Piazzi Barberini being considered an insecure abode, she removed to the Casa Dies, which was occupied by several American families.
In the engagements which succeeded between the Roman and French troops, the wounded of the former were brought into the city, and disposed throughout the different hospitals, which were under the superintendence of several ladies of high rank, who had formed themselves into associations, the better to ensure care and attention to those unfortunate men. Miss Fuller took an active part in this noble work; and the greater portion of her time, during the entire siege, was passed in the hospital of the Trinity of the Pilgrims, which was placed under her direction, in attendance upon its inmates.
The weather was intensely hot; her health was feeble and delicate; the dead and dying were around her in every stage of pain and horror; but she never shrank from the duty she had assumed. Her heart and soul were in the cause for which those men had fought, and all was done that Woman could do to comfort them in their sufferings. I have seen the eyes of the dying, as she moved among them, extended on opposite beds, meet in commendation of her universal kindness; and the friends of those who then passed away may derive consolation from the assurance that nothing of tenderness and attention was wanting to soothe their last moments. And I have heard many of those who recovered speak with all the passionate fervor of the Italian nature, of her whose sympathy and compassion, throughout their long illness, fulfilled all the offices of love and affection. Mazzini, the chief of the Triumvirate, who, better than any man in Rome, knew her worth, often expressed to me his admiration of her high character; and the Princess Belgiojoso. to whom was assigned the charge of the Papal Palace, on the Quirinal, which was converted on this occasion into a hospital, was enthusiastic in her praise. And in a letter which I received not long since from this lady, who was gaining the bread of an exile by teaching languages in Constantinople, she alludes with much feeling to the support afforded by Miss Fuller to the republican party in Italy. Here, in Rome, she is still spoken of in terms of regard and endearment, and the announcement of her death was received with a degree of sorrow not often bestowed upon a foreigner, especially one of a different faith.
On the 29th of June, the bombardment from the French camp was very heavy, shells and grenades falling in every part of the city. In the afternoon of the 30th, I received a brief note from Miss Fuller, requesting me to call at her residence. I did so without delay, and found her lying on a sofa, pale and trembling, evidently much exhausted. She informed me that she had sent for me to place in my hand a packet of important papers, which she wished me to keep for the present, and, in the event of her death, to transmit it to her friends in the United States. She then stated that she was married to Marquis Ossoli, who was in command of a battery on the Pincian Hill,—that being the highest and most exposed position in Rome, and directly in the line of bombs from the French camp. It was not to be expected, she said, that he could escape the dangers of another night, such as the last; and therefore it was her intention to remain with him, and share his fate. At the Ave Maria, she added, he would come for her, and they would proceed together to his post. The packet which she placed in my possession, contained, she said, the certificates of her marriage, and of the birth and baptism of her child. After a few words more, I took my departure, the hour she named having nearly arrived. At the porter's lodge I met the Marquis Ossoli, and a few moments afterward I saw them walking toward the Pincian Hill.
Happily, the cannonading was not renewed that night, and at dawn of day she returned to her apartments, with her husband by her side. On that day the French army entered Rome, and, the gates being opened, Madame Ossoli, accompanied by the Marquis, immediately proceeded to Rieti, where she had left her child in the charge of a confidential nurse, formerly in the service of the Ossoli family.
She remained, as you are no doubt aware, some months at Rieti, whence she removed to Florence, where she resided until her ill-fated departure for the United States. During this period I received several letters from her, all of which, though reluctant to part with them, I enclose to your address in compliance with your request.
I am, Madame, very respectfully,
Your obedient servant,
LEWIS CASS, JR.
Apparition of the goddess Isis to her votary, from Apulelus.
"Scarcely had I closed my eyes, when, behold (I saw in a dream), a divine form emerging from the middle of the sea, and raising a countenance venerable even to the gods themselves. Afterward, the whole of the most splendid image seemed to stand before me, having gradually shaken off the sea. I will endeavor to explain to you its admirable form, if the poverty of human language will but afford me the power of an appropriate narration; or if the divinity itself, of the most luminous form, will supply me with a liberal abundance of fluent diction. In the first place, then, her most copious and long hairs, being gradually intorted, and promiscuously scattered on her divine neck, were softly defluous. A multiform crown, consisting of various flowers, bound the sublime summit of her head. And in the middle of the crown, just on her forehead, there was a smooth orb, resembling a mirror, or rather a white refulgent light, which indicated that she was the moon. Vipers, rising up after the manner of furrows, environed the crown on the right hand and on the left, and Cerealian ears of corn were also extended from above. Her garment was of many colors, and woven from the finest flax, and was at one time lucid with a white splendor, at another yellow, from the flower of crocus, and at another flaming with a rosy redness. But that which most excessively dazzled my sight, was a very black robe, fulgid with a dark splendor, and which, spreading round and passing under her right side, and ascending to her left shoulder, there rose protuberant, like the centre of a shield, the dependent part of her robe falling in many folds, and having small knots of fringe, gracefully flowing in its extremities. Glittering stars were dispersed through the embroidered border of the robe, and through the whole of its surface, and the full moon, shining in the middle of the stars, breathed forth flaming fires. A crown, wholly consisting of flowers and fruits of every kind, adhered with indivisible connection to the border of conspicuous robe, in all its undulating motions.
"What she carried in her hands also consisted of things of a very different nature. Her right hand bore a brazen rattle, through the narrow lamina of which, bent like a belt, certain rods passing, produced a sharp triple sound through the vibrating motion of her arm. An oblong vessel, in the shape of a boat, depended from her left hand, on the handle of which, in that part which was conspicuous, an asp raised its erect head and largely swelling neck. And shoes, woven from the leaves of the victorious palm-tree, covered her immortal feet. Such, and so great a goddess, breathing the fragrant odor of the shores of Arabia the happy, deigned thus to address me."
The foreign English of the translator, Thomas Taylor, gives this description the air of being itself a part of the mysteries. But its majestic beauty requires no formal initiation to be enjoyed.
I give this in the original, as it does not bear translation. Those who read Italian will judge whether it is not a perfect description of a perfect woman.
Vergine bella che di sol vestita,Coronata di stelle, al sommo SolePiacesti si, che'n te sua luce ascose;Amor mi spinge a dir di te parole;Ma non so 'ncominciar senza tu' alta,E di Coiul che amando in te si pose.Invoco lei che ben sempre rispose,Chi la chiamò con fede.Vergine, s'a mercedeMiseria extrema dell' smane coseGiammal tivoise, al mio prego t'inohina;Soccorri alla mia guerra;Bench' l' sia terra, e tu del oiel Regina.Vergine saggia, e del bel numero unaDelle beata vergini prudenti;Anzi la prima, e con più chiara lampa;O saldo scudo dell' afflitte genteContra colpi di Morte e di Fortuna,Sotto' l' quai si trionfu, non pur scampa:O refrigerio alcieco ardor ch' avvampaQui fra mortali schiocchi,Vergine, que' begli occhiChe vider tristi la spietata stampaNe' dolci membri del tuo caro figlio,Volgi ai mio dubbio stato;Che sconsigliato a te vien per consiglio.Vergine pura, d'ognti parte intera,Del tuo parto gentil figlluola e madre;Che allumi questa vita, e t'altra adorni;Per te il tuo Figlio e quel del sommo Padre,O finestra del ciel lucente altera,Venne a salvarne in su gli estremi giorni,E fra tutt' i terreni altri soggiorniSola tu fusti eletta,Vergine benedetta;Che 'l pianto d' Eva in allegrezza torni';Fammi; che puoi; della sua grazia degno,Senza fine o beata,Glà coronata nel superno regno.Vergine santa d'ogni grazia piena;Che per vera e altissima umiltate.Salisti al ciel, onde miel preghi ascolti;Tu partoristi il fonte di pietate,E di giustizia il Sol, che rasserenaIl secol pien d'errori oscuri et tolti;Tre dolci et cari nomi ha' in te raccolti,Madre, Figliuola e Sposa:Vergine gloriosa,Donna del Re che nostri lacci à scioltiE fatto 'l mondo libero et felice,Nelle cui sante piaghePrego ch'appaghe il cor, vera beatrice.Vergine sola al mondo senza exempioChe 'l ciel di tue bellezze innamorasti,Cui né prima fu simil né seconda,Santi penseri, atti pietosi et castiAl vero Dio sacrato et vivo tempioFecero in tua verginità feconda.Per te pò la mia vita esser ioconda,Sa' tuoi preghi, o Maria,Vergine dolce et pia,Ove 'l fallo abondò, la gratia abonda.Con le ginocchia de la mente inchine,Prego che sia mia scorta,E la mia torta via drizzi a buon fine.Vergine chiara et stabile in eterno,Di questo tempestoso mare stella,D'ogni fedel nocchier fidata guida,Pon' mente in che terribile procellaI' mi ritrovo sol, senza governo,Et ò già da vicin l'ultime strida.Ma pur in te l'anima mia si fida,Peccatrice, i' nol nego,Vergine; ma ti pregoChe 'l tuo nemico del mio mal non rida:Ricorditi che fece il peccar nostroPrender Dio, per scamparne,Umana carne al tuo virginal chiostro.Vergine, quante lagrime hò già sparte,Quante lusinghe et quanti preghi indarno,Pur per mia pena et per mio grave danno!Da poi ch'i nacqui in su la riva d'Arno;Cercando or questa ed or quell altra parte,Non è stata mia vita altro ch'affanno.Mortal bellezza, atti, o parole m' hannoTutta ingombrata l'alma,Vergine sacra, ed alma,Non tardar; ch' i' non forse all' ultim 'ann,I di miel piu correnti che saetta,Fra mierie e peccatiSonsen andati, e sol Morte n'aspetta.Vergine, tale è terra, e posto ha in dogliaLo mio cor; che vivendo in pianto il tenne;E di mille miel mali un non sapea;E per saperlo, pur quel che n'avvenne,Fora avvento: ch' ogni altra sua vogliaEra a me morte, ed a lei fama reaOr tu, donna del ciel, tu nostra Dea,Se dir lice, e convicusi;Vergine d'alti sensi,Tu vedi il tutto; e quel che non poteaFar oltri, è nulla a e la tua gran virtute;Pon fine al mio dolore;Ch'a te onore ed a mo fia salute.Vergine, in cui ho tutta mia speranzaChe possi e vogli al gran bisogno altarme;Non mi lasciare in su l'estremo passo;Non guardar me, ma chi degnò crearme;No'l mio valor, ma l'alta sua sembianza;Che in me ti mova a curar d'uorm si basso.Medusa, e l'error mio lo han fatto un sassoD'umor vano stillante;Vergine, tu di santeLagrime, e pie adempi 'l mio cor lasso;Ch' almen l'ultlmo pianto sia divoto,Senza terrestro limo;Come fu'l primo non d'insania voto.Vergine umana, e nemica d'orgoglio,Del comune principio amor t'induca;Miserere d'un cor contrito umile;Che se poca mortal terra caducaAmar con si mirabil fede soglio;Che devro far di te cosa gentile?Se dal mio stato assai misero, e vilePer le tue man resurgo,Vergine; è sacro, e purgoAl tuo nome e pensieri e'ngegno, o stile;La lingua, o'l cor, le lagrime, e i sospiri,Scorgimi al migilor guado;E prendi in grado i cangiati desiri.Il di s'appressa, e non pote esser lunge;Si corre il tempo, e vola,Vergine unica, e sola;E'l cor' or conscienza, or morte punge.Raccommandami al tuo Figiluol, veraceUomo, e veraco Dio;Ch'accolga i mio spirto ultimo in pace.
As the Scandinavian represented Frigga the Earth, or World-mother, knowing all things, yet never herself revealing them, though ready to be called to counsel by the gods, it represents her in action, decked with jewels and gorgeously attended. But, says the Mythes, when she ascended the throne of Odin, her consort (Heaven), she left with mortals her friend, the Goddess of Sympathy, to protect them in her absence.
Since, Sympathy goes about to do good. Especially she devotes herself to the most valiant and the most oppressed. She consoles the gods in some degree even for the death of their darling Baldur. Among the heavenly powers she has no consort.
THE WEDDING OF THE LADY THERESA.From Lockhart's Spanish ballads.
THE WEDDING OF THE LADY THERESA.From Lockhart's Spanish ballads.
'Twas when the fifth Alphonso in Leon held his sway,King Abdulla of Toledo an embassy did send;He asked his sister for a wife, and in an evil dayAlphonso sent her, for he feared Abdalla to offend;He feared to move his anger, for many times beforeHe had received in danger much succor from the Moor.Sad heart had fair Theresa, when she their paction knew;With streaming tears she heard them tell she 'mong the Moors must go;That she, a Christian damsel, a Christian firm and true,Must wed a Moorish husband, it well might cause her woe;But all her tears and all her prayers they are of small avail;At length she for her fate prepares, a victim sad and pale.The king hath sent his sister to fair Toledo town,Where then the Moor Abdalla his royal state did keep;When she drew near, the Moslem from his golden throne came down,And courteously received her, and bade her cease to weep;With loving words he pressed her to come his bower within;With kisses he caressed her, but still she feared the sin."Sir King, Sir King, I pray thee,"—'twas thus Theresa spake,—"I pray thee, have compassion, and do to me no wrong;For sleep with thee I may not, unless the vows I break,Whereby I to the holy church of Christ my lord belong;For thou hast sworn to serve Mahoun, and if this thing should be,The curse of God it must bring down upon thy realm and thee."The angel of Christ Jesu, to whom my heavenly LordHath given my soul in keeping, is ever by my side;If thou dost me dishonor, he will unsheathe his sword,And smite thy body fiercely, at the crying of thy bride;Invisible he standeth; his sword like fiery flameWill penetrate thy bosom the hour that sees my shame."The Moslem heard her with a smile; the earnest words she saidHe took for bashful maiden's wile, and drew her to his bower:In vain Theresa prayed and strove,—she pressed Abdalla's bed,Perforce received his kiss of love, and lost her maiden flower.A woeful woman there she lay, a loving lord beside,And earnestly to God did pray her succor to provide.The angel of Christ Jesu her sore complaint did hear,And plucked his heavenly weapon from out his sheath unseen:He waved the brand in his right hand, and to the King came near,And drew the point o'er limb and joint, beside the weeping Queen:A mortal weakness from the stroke upon the King did fall;He could not stand when daylight broke, but on his knees must crawl.Abdalla shuddered inly, when he this sickness felt,And called upon his barons, his pillow to come nigh;"Rise up," he said, "my liegemen," as round his bed they knelt,"And take this Christian lady, else certainly I die;Let gold be in your girdles, and precious stones beside,And swiftly ride to Leon, and render up my bride."When they were come to Leon Theresa would not goInto her brother's dwelling, where her maiden years were spent;But o'er her downcast visage a white veil she did throw,And to the ancient nunnery of Las Huelgas went.There, long, from worldly eyes retired, a holy life she led;There she, an agéd saint, expired; there sleeps she with the dead.
The following extract from Spinoza is worthy of attention, as expressing the view which a man of the largest intellectual scope may take of Woman, if that part of his life to which her influence appeals has been left unawakened. He was a man of the largest intellect, of unsurpassed reasoning powers; yet he makes a statement false to history, for we well know how often men and women have ruled together without difficulty, and one in which very few men even at the present day—I mean men who are thinkers, like him—would acquiesce.
I have put in contrast with it three expressions of the latest literature.
First, from the poems of W. E. Channing, a poem called "Reverence," equally remarkable for the deep wisdom of its thought and the beauty of its utterance, and containing as fine a description of one class of women as exists in literature.
In contrast with this picture of Woman, the happy Goddess of Beauty, the wife, the friend, "the summer queen," I add one by the author of "Festus," of a woman of the muse, the sybil kind, which seems painted from living experience.
And, thirdly, I subjoin Eugene Sue's description of a wicked but able woman of the practical sort, and appeal to all readers whether a species that admits of three such varieties is so easily to be classed away, or kept within prescribed limits, as Spinoza, and those who think like him, believe.
Perhaps some one will here ask, whether the supremacy of Man over Woman is attributable to nature or custom? Since, if It be human institutions alone to which this fact is owing, there is no reason why we should exclude women from a share in government. Experience most plainly teaches that it is Woman's weakness which places her under the authority of Man. It has nowhere happened that men and women ruled together; but wherever men and women are found, the world over, there we see the men ruling and the women ruled, and in this order of things men and women live together in peace and harmony. The Amazons, it is true, are reputed formerly to have held the reins of government, but they drove men from their dominions; the male of their offspring they invariably destroyed, permitting their daughters alone to live. Now, if women were by nature upon an equality with men, if they equalled men in fortitude, in genius (qualities which give to men might, and consequently right), it surely would be the case, that, among the numerous and diverse nations of the earth, some would be found where both sexes ruled conjointly, and others where the men were ruled by the women, and so educated as to be mentally inferior; and since this state of things nowhere exists, it is perfectly fair to infer that the rights of women are not equal to those of men; but that women must be subordinate, and therefore cannot have an equal, far less a superior place in the government. If, too, we consider the passions of men—how the love men feel towards women is seldom anything but lust and impulse, and much less a reverence for qualities of soul than an admiration of physical beauty; observing, too, the jealousy of lovers, and other things of the same character—we shall see at a glance that it would be, in the highest degree, detrimental to peace and harmony, for men and women to possess on equal share in government.
As an ancestral heritage revereAll learning, and all thought. The painter's fameIs thine, whate'er thy lot, who honorest grace.And need enough in this low time, when they,Who seek to captivate the fleeting notesOf heaven's sweet beauty, must despair almost,So heavy and obdurate show the heartsOf their companions. Honor kindly thenThose who bear up in their so generous armsThe beautiful ideas of matchless forms;For were these not portrayed, our human fate,—Which is to be all high, majestical,To grow to goodness with each coming age,Till virtue leap and sing for joy to seeSo noble, virtuous men,—would brief decay;And the green, festering slime, oblivious, hauntAbout our common fate. O, honor them!But what to all true eyes has chiefest charm,And what to every breast where beats a heartFramed to one beautiful emotion,—toOne sweet and natural feeling, lends a graceTo all the tedious walks of common life,This is fair Woman,—Woman, whose applauseEach poet sings,—Woman the beautiful.Not that her fairest brow, or gentlest form,Charm us to tears; not that the smoothest cheek,Wherever rosy tints have made their home,So rivet us on her; but that she isThe subtle, delicate grace,—the inward grace,For words too excellent; the noble, true,The majesty of earth; the summer queen;In whose conceptions nothing but what's greatHas any right. And, O! her love for him,Who does but his small part in honoring her;Discharging a sweet office, sweeter none,Mother and child, friend, counsel and repose;Naught matches with her, naught has leave with herTo highest human praise. Farewell to himWho reverences not with an excessOf faith the beauteous sex; all barren heShall live a living death of mockery.Ah! had but words the power, what could we sayOf Woman! We, rude men of violent phrase,Harsh action, even in repose inwardly harsh;Whose lives walk blustering on high stilts, removedFrom all the purely gracious influenceOf mother earth. To single from the hostOf angel forms one only, and to herDevote our deepest heart and deepest mind,Seems almost contradiction. Unto herWe owe our greatest blessings, hours of cheer,Gay smiles, and sudden tears, and more than theseA sure perpetual love. Regard her asShe walks along the vast still earth; and see!Before her flies a laughing troop of joys,And by her side treads old experience,With never-failing voice admonitory;The gentle, though infallible, kind advice,The watchful care, the fine regardfulness,Whatever mates with what we hope to find,All consummate in her—the summer queen.To call past ages better than what nowMan is enacting on life's crowded stage,Cannot improve our worth; and for the worldBlue is the sky as ever, and the starsKindle their crystal flames at soft fallen eveWith the same purest lustre that the eastWorshipped. The river gently flows through fieldsWhere the broad-leaved corn spreads out, and loadsIts ear as when the Indian tilled the soil.The dark green pine,—green in the winter's cold,—Still whispers meaning emblems, as of old;The cricket chirps, and the sweet eager birdsIn the sad woods crowd their thick melodies;But yet, to common eyes, life's poetrySomething has faded, and the cause of thisMay be that Man, no longer at the shrineOf Woman, kneeling with true reverence,In spite of field, wood, river, stars and sea,Goes most disconsolate. A babble now,A huge and wind-swelled babble, fills the placeOf that great adoration which of oldMan had for Woman. In these days no moreIs love the pith and marrow of Man's fate.Thou who in early years feelest awakeTo finest impulses from nature's breath,And in thy walk hearest such sounds of truthAs on the common ear strike without heed,Beware of men around thee! Men are foulWith avarice, ambition and deceit;The worst of all, ambition. This is life,Spent in a feverish chase for selfish ends,Which has no virtue to redeem its toil,But one long, stagnant hope to raise the self.The miser's life to this seems sweet and fair;Better to pile the glittering coin, than seekTo overtop our brothers and our loves.Merit in this? Where lies it, though thy nameRing over distant lands, meeting the windEven on the extremest verge of the wide world?Merit in this? Better be hurled abroadOn the vast whirling tide, than, in thyselfConcentred, feed upon thy own applause.Thee shall the good man yield no reverence;But, while the Idle, dissolute crowd are loudIn voice to send thee flattery, shall rejoiceThat he has 'scaped thy fatal doom, and knownHow humble faith in the good soul of thingsProvides amplest enjoyment. O, my brotherIf the Past's counsel any honor claimFrom thee, go read the history of thoseWho a like path have trod, and see a fateWretched with fears, changing like leaves at noon,When the new wind sings in the white birch wood.Learn from the simple child the rule of life,And from the movements of the unconscious tribesOf animal nature, those that bend the wingOr cleave the azure tide, content to be,What the great frame provides,—freedom and grace.Thee, simple child, do the swift winds obey,And the white waterfalls with their bold leapsFollow thy movements. Tenderly the lightThee watches, girding with a zone of radiance,And all the swinging herbs love thy soft steps.
I loved her for that she was beautiful,And that to me she seemed to be all natureAnd all varieties of things in one;Would set at night in clouds of tears, and riseAll light and laughter in the morning; fearNo petty customs nor appearances,But think what others only dreamed about;And say what others did but think; and doWhat others would but say; and glory inWhat others dared but do; it was these which won me;And that she never schooled within her breastOne thought or feeling, but gave holidayTo all; that she told me all her woes,And wrongs, and ills; and so she made them mineIn the communion of love; and weGrew like each other, for we loved each other;She, mild and generous as the sun in spring; AndI, like earth, all budding out with love.* * * * * *The beautiful are never desolate;For some one alway loves them; God or man;If man abandons, God himself takes them;And thus it was. She whom I once loved died;The lightning loathes its cloud; the soul its clay.Can I forget the hand I took in mine,Pale as pale violets; that eye, where mindAnd matter met alike divine?—ah, no!May God that moment judge me when I do!O! she was fair; her nature once all springAnd deadly beauty, like a maiden sword,Startlingly beautiful. I see her now!Wherever thou art thy soul is in my mind;Thy shadow hourly lengthens o'er my brainAnd peoples all its pictures with thyself;Gone, not forgotten; passed, not lost; thou wilt shineIn heaven like a bright spot in the sun!She said she wished to die, and so she died,For, cloudlike, she poured out her love, which wasHer life, to freshen this parched heart. It was thus;I said we were to part, but she said nothing;There was no discord; it was music ceased,Life's thrilling, bursting, bounding joy. She sate,Like a house-god, her hands fixed on her knee,And her dark hair lay loose and long behind her,Through which her wild bright eye flashed like a flint;She spake not, moved not, but she looked the more,As if her eye were action, speech, and feeling.I felt it all, and came and knelt beside her,The electric touch solved both our souls together;Then came the feeling which unmakes, undoes;Which tears the sea-like soul up by the roots,And lashes it in scorn against the skies.* * * * * *It is the saddest and the sorest sight,One's own love weeping. But why call on God?But that the feeling of the boundless boundsAll feeling; as the welkin does the world;It is this which ones us with the whole and God.Then first we wept; then closed and clung together;And my heart shook this building of my breastLike a live engine booming up and down;She fell upon me like a snow-wreath thawing.Never were bliss and beauty, love and woe,Ravelled and twined together into madness,As in that one wild hour to which all elseThe past is but a picture. That aloneIs real, and forever there in front.* * * * * ** * * After than I left her,And only saw her once again alive.
"Mother Saint Perpetua, the superior of the convent, was a tall woman, of about forty years, dressed in dark gray serge, with a long rosary hanging at her girdle. A white mob-cap, with a long black veil, surrounded her thin, wan face with its narrow, hooded border. A great number of deep, transverse wrinkles ploughed her brow, which resembled yellowish ivory in color and substance. Her keen and prominent nose was curved like the hooked beak of a bird of prey; her black eye was piercing and sagacious; her face was at once intelligent, firm, and cold.
"For comprehending and managing the material interests of the society, Mother Saint Perpetua could have vied with the shrewdest and most wily lawyer. When women are possessed of what is calledbusiness talent, and when they apply thereto the sharpness of perception, the indefatigable perseverance, the prudent dissimulation, and, above all, the correctness and rapidity of judgment at first sight, which are peculiar to them, they arrive at prodigious results.
"To Mother Saint Perpetua, a woman of a strong and solid head, the vast moneyed business of the society was but child's play. None better than she understood how to buy depreciated properties, to raise them to their original value, and sell them to advantage; the average purchase of rents, the fluctuations of exchange, and the current prices of shares in all the leading speculations, were perfectly familiar to her. Never had she directed her agents to make a single false speculation, when it had been the question how to invest funds, with which good souls were constantly endowing the society of Saint Mary. She had established in the house a degree of order, of discipline, and, above all, of economy, that were indeed remarkable; the constant aim of all her exertions being, not to enrich herself, but the community over which she presided; for the spirit of association, when it is directed to an object ofcollective selfishness, gives to corporations all the faults and vices of individuals."
The following is an extract from a letter addressed to me by one of the monks of the nineteenth century. A part I have omitted, because it does not express my own view, unless with qualifications which I could not make, except by full discussion of the subject.
"Woman in the Nineteenth Century should be a pure, chaste, holy being.
"This state of being in Woman is no more attained by the expansion of her intellectual capacity, than by the augmentation of her physical force.
"Neither is it attained by the increase or refinement of her love for Man, or for any object whatever, or for all objects collectively; but
"This state of being is attained by the reference of all her powers and all her actions to the source of Universal Love, whose constant requisition is a pure, chaste and holy life.
"So long as Woman looks to Man (or to society) for that which she needs, she will remain in an indigent state, for he himself is indigent of it, and as much needs it as she does.
"So long as this indigence continues, all unions or relations constructed between Man and Woman are constructed in indigence, and can produce only indigent results or unhappy consequences.
"The unions now constructing, as well as those in which the parties constructing them were generated, being based on self-delight, or lust, can lead to no more happiness in the twentieth than is found in the nineteenth century.
"It is not amended institutions, it is not improved education, it is not another selection of individuals for union, that can meliorate the said result, but thebasisof the union must be changed.
"If in the natural order Woman and Man would adhere strictly to physiological or natural laws, in physical chastity, a most beautiful amendment of the human race, and human condition, would in a few generations adorn the world.
"Still, it belongs to Woman in the spiritual order, to devote herself wholly to her eternal husband, and become the Free Bride of the One who alone can elevate her to her true position, and reconstruct her a pure, chaste, and holy being."
I have mislaid an extract from "The Memoirs of an American Lady," which I wished to use on this subject, but its import is, briefly, this:
Observing of how little consequence the Indian women are in youth, and how much in age, because in that trying life, good counsel and sagacity are more prized than charms, Mrs. Grant expresses a wish that reformers would take a hint from observation of this circumstance.
In another place she says: "The misfortune of our sex is, that young women are not regarded as the material from which old women must be made."
I quote from memory, but believe the weight of the remark is retained.
As many allusions are made in the foregoing pages to characters of women drawn by the Greek dramatists, which may not be familiar to the majority of readers, I have borrowed from the papers of Miranda some notes upon them. I trust the girlish tone of apostrophising rapture may be excused. Miranda was very young at the time of writing, compared with her present mental age.Now, she would express the same feelings, but in a worthier garb—if she expressed them at all.
Iphigenia! Antigone! you were worthy to live!Weare fallen on evil times, my sisters; our feelings have been checked; our thoughts questioned; our forms dwarfed and defaced by a bad nurture. Yet hearts like yours are in our breasts, living, if unawakened; and our minds are capable of the same resolves. You we understand at once; those who stare upon us pertly in the street, we cannot—could never understand.
You knew heroes, maidens, and your fathers were kings of men. You believed in your country and the gods of your country. A great occasion was given to each, whereby to test her character.
You did not love on earth; for the poets wished to show us the force of Woman's nature, virgin and unbiased. You were women; not wives, or lovers, or mothers. Those are great names, but we are glad to seeyouin untouched flower.
Were brothers so dear, then, Antigone? We have no brothers. We see no men into whose lives we dare look steadfastly, or to whose destinies we look forward confidently. We care not for their urns; what inscription could we put upon them? They live for petty successes, or to win daily the bread of the day. No spark of kingly fire flashes from their eyes.
None! are therenone?
It is a base speech to say it. Yes! there are some such; we have sometimes caught their glances. But rarely have they been rocked in the same cradle as we, and they do not look upon us much; for the time is not yet come.
Thou art so grand and simple! we need not follow thee; thou dost not need our love.
But, sweetest Iphigenia! who knewthee, as to me thou art known? I was not born in vain, if only for the heavenly tears I have shed with thee. She will be grateful for them. I have understood her wholly, as a friend should; better than she understood herself.
With what artless art the narrative rises to the crisis! The conflicts in Agamemnon's mind, and the imputations of Menelaus, give us, at once, the full image of him, strong in will and pride, weak in virtue, weak in the noble powers of the mind that depend on imagination. He suffers, yet it requires the presence of his daughter to make him feel the full horror of what he is to do.