I like to listen to the soliloquies of a bright child. In this microcosm the philosophical3 observer may trace the natural progression of the mind of mankind. I often silently observe L—-, with this view. He is generally imitative and dramatic; the day-school, the singing-school or the evening party, are acted out with admirable variety in the humors of the scene, end great discrimination of character in its broader features. What is chiefly remarkable4 is his unconsciousness of his mental processes, and how thoughts it would be impossible for him to recall spring up in his mind like flowers and weeds in the soil. But to-night he was truly in a state of lyrical inspiration, his eyes flashing, his face glowing, and his whole composition chanted out in an almost metrical form. He began by mourning the death of a certain Harriet whom he had let go to foreign parts, and who had died at sea. He described her as having “blue, sparkling eyes, and a sweet smile,” and lamented5 that he could never kiss her cold lips again. This part, which he continued for some time, was in prolonged cadences6, and a low, mournful tone, with a frequently recurring7 burden of “O, my Harriet, shall I never see thee more!”
Extract from Journal.
It is so true that a woman may be in love with a woman, and a man with a man. It is pleasant to be sure of it, because it is undoubtedly8 the same love that we shall feel when we are angels, when we ascend9 to the only fit place for the Mignons, where
“Sie fragen nicht nach Mann und Welb.”
It is regulated by the same law as that of love between persons of different sexes, only it is purely10 intellectual and spiritual, unprefaced by any mixture of lower instincts, undisturbed by any need of consulting temporal interests; its law is the desire of the spirit to realize a whole, which makes it seek in another being that which it finds not in itself.
Thus the beautiful seek the strong; the mute seek the eloquent11; the butterfly settles on the dark flower. Why did Socrates so love Alcibiades? Why did K?rner so love Schneider? How natural is the love of Wallenstein for Max, that of Madame de Stael for de Recamier, mine for ——-! I loved —— for a time with as much passion as I was then strong enough to feel. Her face was always gleaming before me; her voice was echoing in my ear; all poetic12 thoughts clustered round the dear image. This love was for me a key which unlocked many a treasure which I still possess; it was the carbuncle (emblematic gem13!) which cast light into many of the darkest corners of human nature. She loved me, too, though not so much, because her nature was “less high, less grave, less large, less deep;” but she loved more tenderly, less passionately15. She loved me, for I well remember her suffering when she first could feel my faults, and knew one part of the exquisite16 veil rent away—how she wished to stay apart and weep the whole day.
These thoughts were suggested by a large engraving17 representing Madame Recamier in her boudoir. I have so often thought over the intimacy18 between her and Madame de Stael.
Madame Recamier is half-reclining on a sofa; she is clad in white drapery, which clings very gracefully19 to her round, but elegantly-slender form; her beautiful neck and arms are bare; her hair knotted up so as to show the contour of her truly-feminine head to great advantage. A book lies carelessly on her lap; one hand yet holds it at the place where she left off reading; her lovely face is turned towards us; she appears to muse21 on what she has been reading. When we see a woman in a picture with a book, she seems to be doing precisely22 that for which she was born; the book gives such an expression of purity to the female figure. A large window, partially23 veiled by a white curtain, gives a view of a city at some little distance. On one side stand the harp24 and piano; there are just books enough for a lady’s boudoir. There is no picture, except one of De Recamier herself, as Corinne. This is absurd; but the absurdity25 is interesting, as recalling the connection. You imagine her to have been reading one of De Stael’s books, and to be now pondering what those brilliant words of her gifted friend can mean.
Everything in the room is in keeping. Nothing appears to have been put there because other people have it; but there is nothing which shows a taste more noble and refined than you would expect from the fair Frenchwoman. All is elegant, modern, in harmony with the delicate habits and superficial culture which you would look for in its occupant.
To Her Mother.
Sept. 5, 1887.
* * * * If I stay in Providence26, and more money is wanting than can otherwise be furnished, I will take a private class, which is ready for me, and by which, even if I reduced my terms to suit the place, I can earn the four hundred dollars that —— will need. If I do not stay, I will let her have my portion of our income, with her own, or even capital which I have a right to take up, and come into this or some other economical place, and live at the cheapest rate. It will not be even a sacrifice to me to do so, for I am weary of society, and long for the opportunity for solitary27 concentration of thought. I know what I say; if I live, you may rely upon me.
God be with you, my dear mother! I am sure he will prosper28 the doings of so excellent a woman if you will only keep your mind calm and be firm. Trust your daughter too. I feel increasing trust in mine own good mind. We will take good care of the children and of one another. Never fear to trouble me with your perplexities. I can never be so situated29 that I do not earnestly wish to know them. Besides, things do not trouble me as they did, for I feel within myself the power to aid, to serve.
Most affectionately,
Your daughter, M.
Part of Letter to M.
Providence, Oct. 7, 1838.
* * * For yourself, dear ——, you have attained30 an important age. No plan is desirable for you which is to be pursued with precision. The world, the events of every day, which no one can predict, are to be your teachers, and you must, in some degree, give yourself up, and submit to be led captive, if you would learn from them. Principle must be at the helm, but thought must shift its direction with the winds and waves.
Happy as you are thus far in worthy31 friends, you are not in much danger of rash intimacies32 or great errors. I think, upon the whole, quite highly of your judgment33 about people and conduct; for, though your first feelings are often extravagant34, they are soon balanced.
I do not know other faults in you beside that want of retirement35 of mind which I have before spoken of. If M——— and A——— want too much seclusion36, and are too severe in their views of life and man, I think you are too little so. There is nothing so fatal to the finer faculties37 as too ready or too extended a publicity38. There is some danger lest there be no real religion in the heart which craves39 too much of daily sympathy. Through your mind the stream of life has coursed with such rapidity that it has often swept away the seed or loosened the roots of the young plants before they had ripened40 any fruit.
I should think writing would be very good for you. A journal of your life, and analyses of your thoughts, would teach you how to generalize, and give firmness to your conclusions. Do not write down merely that things are beautiful, or the reverse; but what they are, and why they are beautiful or otherwise; and show these papers, at least at present, to nobody. Be your own judge and your own helper. Do not go too soon to any one with your difficulties, but try to clear them up for yourself.
I think the course of reading you have fallen upon, of late, will be better for you than such books as you formerly42 read, addressed rather to the taste and imagination than the judgment. The love of beauty has rather an undue43 development in your mind. See now what it is, and what it has been. Leave for a time the Ideal, and return to the Real.
I should think two or three hours a day would be quite enough, at present, for you to give to books. Now learn buying and selling, keeping the house, directing the servants; all that will bring you worlds of wisdom if you keep it subordinate to the one grand aim of perfecting the whole being. And let your self-respect forbid you to do imperfectly anything that you do at all.
I always feel ashamed when I write with this air of wisdom; but you will see, by my hints, what I mean. Your mind wants depth and precision; your character condensation45. Keep your high aim steadily46 in view; life will open the path to reach it. I think ——, even if she be in excess, is an excellent friend for you; her character seems to have what yours wants, whether she has or has not found the right way.
To Her Brother, A. B. F.
Providence, Feb. 19, 1888
MY DEAR A.:
I wish you could see the journals of two dear little girls, eleven years old, in my school. They love one another like Bessie Bell and Mary Gray in the ballad47. They are just of a size, both lively as birds, affectionate, gentle, ambitious in good works and knowledge. They encourage one another constantly to do right; they are rivals, but never jealous of one another. One has the quicker intellect, the other is the prettier. I have never had occasion to find fault with either, and the forwardness of their minds has induced me to take both into my reading-class, where they are associated with girls many years their elders. Particular pains do they take with their journals. These are written daily, in a beautiful, fair, round hand, well-composed, showing attention, and memory well-trained, with many pleasing sallies of playfulness, and some very interesting thoughts.
To the Same.
Jamaica Plain, Dec. 20, 1840.
* * * * About your school I do not think I could give you much advice which would be of value, unless I could know your position more in detail. The most important rule is, in all relations with our fellow-creatures, never forget that, if they are imperfect persons, they are immortal49 souls, and treat them as you would wish to be treated by the light of that thought.
As to the application of means, abstain50 from punishment as much as possible, and use encouragement as far as you can without flattery. But be even more careful as to strict truth in this regard, towards children, than to persons of your own age; for, to the child, the parent or teacher is the representative of justice; and as that of life is severe, an education which, in any degree, excites vanity, is the very worst preparation for that general and crowded school.
I doubt not you will teach grammar well, as I saw you aimed at principles in your practice.
In geography, try to make pictures of the scenes, that they may be present to their imaginations, and the nobler faculties be brought into action, as well as memory.
In history, try to study and paint the characters of great men; they best interpret the leadings of events amid the nations.
I am pleased with your way of speaking of both people and pupils; your view seems from the right point. Yet beware of over great pleasure in being popular, or even beloved. As far as an amiable51 disposition52 and powers of entertainment make you so, it is a happiness; but if there is one grain of plausibility53, it is poison.
But I will not play Mentor54 too much, lest I make you averse55 to write to your very affectionate sister,
M.
To Her Brother, R.
I entirely56 agree in what you say of tuition and intuition; the two must act and react upon one another, to make a man, to form a mind. Drudgery57 is as necessary, to call out the treasures of the mind, as harrowing and planting those of the earth. And besides, the growths of literature and art are as much nature as the trees in Concord58 woods; but nature idealized and perfected.
To the Same.
1841.
I take great pleasure in that feeling of the living presence of beauty in nature which your letters show. But you, who have now lived long enough to see some of my prophecies fulfilled, will not deny, though you may not yet believe the truth of my words when I say you go to an extreme in your denunciations of cities and the social institutions. These are a growth also, and, as well as the diseases which come upon them, under the control of the one spirit as much as the great tree on which the insects prey59, and in whose bark the busy bird has made many a wound.
When we get the proper perspective of these things we shall find man, however artificial, still a part of nature. Meanwhile, let us trust; and while it is the soul’s duty ever to bear witness to the best it knows, let us not be hasty to conclude that in what suits us not there can be no good. Let us be sure there must be eventual60 good, could we but see far enough to discern it. In maintaining perfect truth to ourselves and choosing that mode of being which suits us, we had best leave others alone as much as may be. You prefer the country, and I doubt not it is on the whole a better condition of life to live there; but at the country party you have mentioned you saw that no circumstances will keep people from being frivolous61. One may be gossipping, and vulgar, and idle in the country,—earnest, noble and wise, in the city. Nature cannot be kept from us while there is a sky above, with so much as one star to remind us of prayer in the silent night.
As I walked home this evening at sunset, over the Mill-Dam, towards the city, I saw very distinctly that the city also is a bed in God’s garden. More of this some other time.
To a Young Friend.
Concord, May 2, 1887.
MY DEAR: I am passing happy here, except that I am not well,—so unwell that I fear I must go home and ask my good mother to let me rest and vegetate62 beneath her sunny kindness for a while. The excitement of conversation prevents my sleeping. The drive here with Mr. E——— was delightful63. Dear Nature and Time, so often calumniated64, will take excellent care of us if we will let them. The wisdom lies in schooling65 the heart not to expect too much. I did that good thing when I came here, and I am rich. On Sunday I drove to Watertown with the author of “Nature.” The trees were still bare, but the little birds care not for that; they revel66, and carol, and wildly tell their hopes, while the gentle, “voluble” south wind plays with the dry leaves, and the pine-trees sigh with their soul-like sounds for June. It was beauteous; and care and routine fled away, and I was as if they had never been, except that I vaguely67 whispered to myself that all had been well with me.
The baby here is beautiful. He looks like his father, and smiles so sweetly on all hearty68, good people. I play with him a good deal, and he comes so natural, after Dante and other poets.
Ever faithfully your friend.
To the Same.
1887.
MY BELOVED CHILD: I was very glad to get your note. Do not think you must only write to your friends when you can tell them you are happy; they will not misunderstand you in the dark hour, nor think you forsaken69, if cast down. Though your letter of Wednesday was very sweet to me, yet I knew it could not last as it was then. These hours of heavenly, heroic strength leave us, but they come again: their memory is with us amid after-trials, and gives us a foretaste of that era when the steadfast70 soul shall be the only reality.
My dearest, you must suffer, but you will always be growing stronger, and with every trial nobly met, you will feel a growing assurance that nobleness is not a mere41 sentiment with you. I sympathize deeply in your anxiety about your mother; yet I cannot but remember the bootless fear and agitation71 about my mother, and how strangely our destinies were guided. Take refuge in prayer when you are most troubled; the door of the sanctuary72 will never be shut against you. I send you a paper which is very sacred to me. Bless Heaven that your heart is awakened73 to sacred duties before any kind of gentle ministering has become impossible, before any relation has been broken. 27
27 It has always been my desire to find appropriate time and place to correct an erroneous impression which has gained currency in regard to my father, and which does injustice74 to his memory. That impression is that he was exceedingly stern and exacting75 in the parental76 relation, and especially in regard to my sister; that he forbid or frowned upon her sports;—excluded her from intercourse77 with other children when she, a child, needed such companionship, and required her to bend almost unceasingly over her books. This impression has, certainly in part, arisen from an autobiographical sketch78, never written for publication nor intended for a literal or complete statement of her father’s educational method, or the relation which existed between them, which was most loving and true on both sides. While the narrative79 is true, it is not the all she would have said, and, therefore, taken alone, conveys an impression which misleads those who did not know our father well. Perhaps no better opportunity or place than this may ever arise to correct this impression so for us it is wrong. It is true that my father had a very high standard of scholarship, and did expect conformity80 to it in his children. He was not stern toward them.
It is doubtless true, also, that he did not perfectly44 comprehend the rare mind of his daughter, or see for some years that she required no stimulating81 to intellectual effort, as do most children, but rather the reverse. But how many fathers are there who would have understood at once such a child as Margaret Fuller was, or would have done even as wisely as he? And how long is it since a wiser era has dawned upon the world (its light not yet fully20 welcomed), in which attention first to physical development to the exclusion82 of the mental, is an axiom in education! Was it so deemed forty years ago? Nor has it been considered that so gifted a child would naturally, as she did, seek the companionship of those older than herself, and not of children who had little in unison83 with her. She needed, doubtless, to be urged into the usual sports of children, and the company of those of her own age; if not urged to enter these she was never excluded from either. She needed to be kept from books for a period, or to be led to those of a lighter84 cost than such as she read, and which usually task the thoughts of mature men. This simply was not done, and the error arose from no lack of tenderness, or consideration, from no lack of the wisdom of those times, but from the simple fact that the laws of physiology85 as connected with those of mind were not understood then as now, nor was attention so much directed to physical culture as of the primary importance it is now regarded. Our father was indeed exact and strict with himself and others; but none has ever been more devoted86 to his children than he, or more painstaking87 with their education, nor more fondly loved them; and in later life they have ever been more and more impressed with the conviction of his fidelity88 and wisdom. That Margaret venerated89 her father, and that his love was returned, is abundantly evidenced in her poem which accompanies this letter. This, too, was not written for the public eye, but it is too noble a tribute, too honorable both to father and daughter, to be suppressed. I trust that none, passing from one extreme to the other, will infer from the natural self-reproach and upbraiding90 because of short-comings, felt by every true mind when an honored and loved parent departs, that she lacked fidelity in the relation of daughter. She agreed not always with his views and methods, but this diversity of mind never affected91 their mutual92 respect and love.—Ed.
Lines Written in March, 1836.
“I will not leave you comfortless.”
O, Friend divine! this promise dear
Falls sweetly on the weary ear!
Often, in hours of sickening pain,
It soothes94 me to thy rest again.
Might I a true disciple95 be,
Following thy footsteps faithfully,
Then should I still the succor96 prove
Of him who gave his life for love.
When this fond heart would vainly beat
For bliss97 that ne’er on earth we meet,
For perfect sympathy of soul,
From those such heavy laws control;
When, roused from passion’s ecstasy98,
I see the dreams that filled it fly,
Amid my bitter tears and sighs
Those gentle words before me rise.
With aching brows and feverish99 brain
The founts of intellect I drain,
And con2 with over-anxious thought
What poets sung and heroes wrought100.
Enchanted101 with their deeds and lays,
I with like gems102 would deck my days;
No fires creative in me burn,
And, humbled103, I to Thee return;
When blackest clouds around me rolled
Of scepticism drear and cold,
When love, and hope, and joy and pride,
Forsook105 a spirit deeply tried;
My reason wavered in that hour,
Prayer, too impatient, lost its power;
From thy benignity106 a ray,
I caught, and found the perfect day.
A head revered107 in dust was laid;
For the first time I watched my dead;
The widow’s sobs108 were checked in vain,
And childhood’s tears poured down like rain.
In awe109 I gaze on that dear face,
In sorrow, years gone by retrace110,
When, nearest duties most forgot,
I might have blessed, and did it not!
Ignorant, his wisdom I reproved,
Heedless, passed by what most he loved,
Knew not a life like his to prize,
Of ceaseless toil111 and sacrifice.
No tears can now that hushed heart move,
No cares display a daughter’s love,
The fair occasion lost, no more
Can thoughts more just to thee restore.
What can I do? And how atone112
For all I’ve done, and left undone113?
Tearful I search the parting words
Which the beloved John records.
“Not comfortless!” I dry my eyes,
My duties clear before me rise,—
Before thou think’st of taste or pride,
See home-affections satisfied!
Be not with generous thoughts content,
But on well-doing constant bent114;
When self seems dear, self-seeking fair;
Remember this sad hour in prayer!
Though all thou wishest fly thy touch,
Much can one do who loveth much.
More of thy spirit, Jesus give,
Not comfortless, though sad, to live.
And yet not sad, if I can know
To copy Him who here below
Sought but to do his Father’s will,
Though from such sweet composure still
My heart be far. Wilt115 thou not aid
One whose best hopes on thee are stayed?
Breathe into me thy perfect love,
And guide me to thy rest above!
To Her Brother, R——.
* * * Mr. Keats, Emma’s father, is dead. To me this brings unusual sorrow, though I have never yet seen him; but I thought of him as one of the very few persons known to me by reputation, whose acquaintance might enrich me. His character was a sufficient answer to the doubt, whether a merchant can be a man of honor. He was, like your father, a man all whose virtues116 had stood the test. He was no word-hero.
To a Young Friend.
Providence, June 16,1837.
MY DEAR ———: I pray you, amid all your duties, to keep some hours to yourself. Do not let my example lead you into excessive exertions117. I pay dear for extravagance of this sort; five years ago I had no idea of the languor118 and want of animal spirits which torment119 me now. Animal spirits are not to be despised. An earnest mind and seeking heart will not often be troubled by despondency; but unless the blood can dance at proper times, the lighter passages of life lose all their refreshment120 and suggestion.
I wish you and ———- had been here last Saturday. Our school-house was dedicated121, and Mr. Emerson made the address; it was a noble appeal in behalf of the best interests of culture, and seemingly here was fit occasion. The building was beautiful, and furnished with an even elegant propriety122.
I am at perfect liberty to do what I please, and there are apparently123 the best dispositions124, if not the best preparation, on the part of the hundred and fifty young minds with whom I am to be brought in contact.
I sigh for the country; trees, birds and flowers, assure me that June is here, but I must walk through streets many and long, to get sight of any expanse of green. I had no fine weather while at home, though the quiet and rest were delightful to me; the sun did not shine once really warmly, nor did the apple-trees put on their blossoms until the very day I came away.
Sonnet125.
TO THE SAME.
Although the sweet, still watches of the night
Find me all lonely now, yet the delight
Hath not quite gone, which from thy presence flows.
The love, the joy that in thy bosom126 glows,
Lingers to cheer thy friend. From thy fresh dawn
Some golden exhalations have I drawn127
To make less dim my dusty noon. Thy tones
Are with me still; some plaintive128 as the moans
Of Dryads, when their native groves129 must fall,
Some wildly wailing130, like the clarion-call
On battle-field, strewn with the noble dead.
Some in soft romance, like the echoes bred
In the most secret groves of Arcady;
Yet all, wild, sad, or soft, how steeped in poesy! Providence, April, 1888.
To the Same.
Providence, Oct. 21, 1888.
* * * * I am reminded by what you say, of an era in my own existence, it is seven years bygone. For bitter months a heavy weight had been pressing on me,—the weight of deceived friendship. I could not be much alone,—a great burden of family cares pressed upon me; I was in the midst of society, and obliged to act my part there as well as I could. At that time I took up the study of German, and my progress was like the rebound131 of a string pressed almost to bursting. My mind being then in the highest state of action, heightened, by intellectual appreciation132, every pang133; and imagination, by prophetic power, gave to the painful present all the weight of as painful a future.
At this time I never had any consolation134, except in long solitary walks, and my meditations135 then were so far aloof136 from common life, that on my return my fall was like that of the eagle, which the sportsman’s hand calls bleeding from his lofty flight, to stain the earth with his blood.
In such hours we feel so noble, so full of love and bounty137, that we cannot conceive how any pain should have been needed to teach us. It then seems we are so born for good, that such means of leading us to it were wholly unnecessary. But I have lived to know that the secret of all things is pain, and that nature travaileth most painfully with her noblest product. I was not without hours of deep spiritual insight, and consciousness of the inheritance of vast powers. I touched the secret of the universe, and by that touch was invested with talismanic138 power which has never left me, though it sometimes lies dormant139 for a long time.
One day lives always in my memory; one chastest, heavenliest day of communion with the soul of things. It was Thanksgiving-day. I was free to be alone; in the meditative140 woods, by the choked-up fountain, I passed its hours, each of which contained ages of thought and emotion. I saw, then, how idle were my griefs; that I had acquired the thought of each object which had been taken from me; that more extended personal relations would only have given me pleasures which then seemed not worth my care, and which would surely have dimmed my sense of the spiritual meaning of all which had passed. I felt how true it was that nothing in any being which was fit for me, could long be kept from me; and that, if separation could be, real intimacy had never been. All the films seemed to drop from my existence, and I was sure that I should never starve in this desert world, but that manna would drop from Heaven, if I would but rise with every rising sun to gather it.
In the evening I went to the church-yard; the moon sailed above the rosy141 clouds,—the crescent moon rose above the heavenward-pointing spire142. At that hour a vision came upon my soul, whose final scene last month interpreted. The rosy clouds of illusion are all vanished; the moon has waxed to full. May my life be a church, full of devout143 thoughts end solemn music. I pray thus, my dearest child! “Our Father! let not the heaviest shower be spared; let not the gardener forbear his knife till the fair, hopeful tree of existence be brought to its fullest blossom and fruit!”
To the Same.
Jamaica Plain, June, 1889.
* * * I have had a pleasant visit at Naliant, but was no sooner there than the air braced144 me so violently as to drive all the blood to my head. I had headache two of the three days we were there, and yet I enjoyed my stay very much. We had the rocks and piazzas145 to ourselves, and were on sufficiently146 good terms not to destroy, if we could not enhance, one another’s pleasure.
The first night we had a storm, and the wind roared and wailed147 round the house that Ossianic poetry of which you hear so many strains. Next day was clear and brilliant, with a high north-west wind. I went out about six o’clock, and had a two hours’ scramble148 before breakfast. I do not like to sit still in this air, which exasperates149 all my nervous feelings; but when I can exhaust myself in climbing, I feel delightfully,—the eye is so sharpened, and the mind so full of thought. The outlines of all objects, the rocks, the distant sails, even the rippling150 of the ocean, were so sharp that they seemed to press themselves into the brain. When I see a natural scene by such a light it stays in my memory always as a picture; on milder days it influences me more in the way of reverie. After breakfast, we walked on the beaches. It was quite low tide, no waves, and the fine sand eddying151 wildly about. I came home with that frenzied152 headache which you are so unlucky as to know, covered my head with wet towels, and went to bed. After dinner I was better, and we went to the Spouting-horn. C—— was perched close to the fissure154, far above me, and, in a pale green dress, she looked like the nymph of the place. I lay down on a rock, low in the water, where I could hear the twin harmonies of the sucking of the water into the spout153, and the washing of the surge on the foot of the rock. I never passed a more delightful afternoon. Clouds of pearl and amber155 were slowly drifting across the sky, or resting a while to dream, like me, near the water. Opposite me, at considerable distance, was a line of rock, along which the billows of the advancing tide chased one another, and leaped up exultingly156 as they were about to break. That night we had a sunset of the gorgeous, autumnal kind, and in the evening very brilliant moonlight; but the air was so cold I could enjoy it but a few minutes. Next day, which was warm and soft, I was out on the rocks all day. In the afternoon I was out alone, and had an admirable place, a cleft157 between two vast towers of rock with turret-shaped tops. I got on a ledge48 of rock at their foot, where I could lie and let the waves wash up around me, and look up at the proud turrets158 rising into the prismatic light. This evening was very fine; all the sky covered with crowding clouds, profound, but not sullen159 of mood, the moon wading160, the stars peeping, the wind sighing very softly. We lay on the high rocks and listened to the plashing of the waves. The next day was good, but the keen light was too much for my eyes and brain; and, though I am glad to have been there, I am as glad to get back to our garlanded rocks, and richly-green fields and groves. I wish you could come to me now; we have such wealth of roses.
To the Same.
Jamaica Plain, Aug., 1889.
* * * * I returned home well, full of earnestness; yet, I know not why, with the sullen, boding161 sky came a mood of sadness, nay162, of gloom, black as Hades, which I have vainly striven to fend163 off by work, by exercise, by high memories. Very glad was I of a painful piece of intelligence, which came the same day with your letter, to bring me on excuse for tears. That was a black Friday, both above and within. What demon164 resists our good angel, and seems at such times to have the mastery? Only seems, I say to myself; it is but the sickness of the immortal soul, and shall by-and-by be cast aside like a film. I think this is the great step of our life,—to change the nature of our self-reliance. We find that the will cannot conquer circumstances, and that our temporal nature must vary its hue165 here with the food that is given it. Only out of mulberry leaves will the silk-worm spin its thread fine and durable166. The mode of our existence is not in our own power; but behind it is the immutable167 essence that cannot be tarnished168; and to hold fast to this conviction, to live as far as possible by its light, cannot be denied us if we elect this kind of self-trust. Yet is sickness wearisome; and I rejoice to say that my demon seems to have been frightened away by this day’s sun. But, conscious of these diseases of the mind, believe that I can sympathize with a friend when subject to the same. Do not fail to go and stay with ———; few live so penetrating169 and yet so kind, so true, so kind, so true, so sensitive. She is the spirit of love as well as of intellect. * * * *
To the Same.
MY BELOVED CHILD: I confess I was much disappointed when I first received your letter this evening. I have been quite ill for two or three days, and looked forward to your presence as a restorative. But think not I would have had you act differently; far better is it for me to have my child faithful to duty than even to have her with me. Such was the lesson I taught her in a better hour. I am abashed171 to think how often lately I have found excuses for indolence in the weakness of my body; while now, after solitary communion with my better nature, I feel it was weakness of mind, weak fear of depression and conflict. But the Father of our spirits will not long permit a heart fit for worship
“———— to seek
From weak recoils172, exemptions173 weak,
After false gods to go astray,
Deck altars vile174 with garlands gay,” etc.
His voice has reached me; and I trust the postponement175 of your visit will give me space to nerve myself to what strength I should, so that, when we do meet, I shall rejoice that you did not come to help or soothe93 me; for I shall have helped and soothed176 myself. Indeed, I would not so willingly that you should see my short-comings as know that they exist. Pray that I may never lose sight of my vocation177; that I may not make ill-health a plea for sloth178 and cowardice179; pray that, whenever I do, I may be punished more swiftly than this time, by a sadness as deep as now.
To Her Brother, R.
Cambridge, August 6, 1842.
My dear R.: I want to hear how you enjoyed your journey, and what you think of the world as surveyed from mountain-tops. I enjoy exceedingly staying among the mountains. I am satisfied with reading these bolder lines in the manuscript of Nature. Merely gentle and winning scenes are not enough for me. I wish my lot had been cast amid the sources of the streams, where the voice of the hidden torrent180 is heard by night, where the eagle soars, and the thunder resounds181 in long peals182 from side to side; where the grasp of a more powerful emotion has rent asunder183 the rocks, and the long purple shadows fall like a broad wing upon the valley. All places, like all persons, I know, have beauty; but only in some scenes, and with some people, can I expand and feel myself at home. I feel all this the more for having passed my earlier life in such a place as Cambridgeport. There I had nothing except the little flower-garden behind the house, and the elms before the door. I used to long and sigh for beautiful places such as I read of. There was not one walk for me, except over the bridge. I liked that very much,—the river, and the city glittering in sunset, and the lively undulating line all round, and the light smokes, seen in some weather.
Letter to the Same.
Milwaukie, July 29, 1848.
DEAR R.: * * * Daily I thought of you during my visit to the Rock-river territory. It is only five years since the poor Indians have been dispossessed of this region of sumptuous184 loveliness, such as can hardly be paralleled in the world. No wonder they poured out their blood freely before they would go. On one island, belonging to a Mr. H., with whom we stayed, are still to be found their “caches” for secreting185 provisions,—the wooden troughs in which they pounded their corn, the marks of their tomahawks upon felled trees. When he first came, he found the body of an Indian woman, in a canoe, elevated on high poles, with all her ornaments186 on. This island is a spot, where Nature seems to have exhausted187 her invention in crowding it with all kinds of growths, from the richest trees down to the most delicate plants. It divides the river which there sweeps along in clear and glittering current, between noble parks, richest green lawns, pictured rocks crowned with old hemlocks188, or smooth bluffs189, three hundred feet high, the most beautiful of all. Two of these,—the Eagle’s Nest, and the Deer’s Walk, still the resort of the grand and beautiful creature from which they are named,—were the scene of some of the happiest hours of my life. I had no idea, from verbal description, of the beauty of these bluffs, nor can I hope to give any to others. They lie so magnificently bathed in sunlight, they touch the heavens with so sharp and fair a line. This is one of the finest parts of the river; but it seems beautiful enough to fill any heart and eye all along its course, nowhere broken or injured by the hand of man. And there, I thought, if we two could live, and you could have a farm which would not cost a twentieth part the labor190 of a New England farm, and would pay twenty times as much for the labor, and have our books and, our pens and a little boat on the river, how happy we might be for four or five years,—at least, as happy as Fate permits mortals to be. For we, I think, are congenial, and if I could hope permanent peace on the earth, I might hope it with you.
You will be glad to hear that I feel overpaid for coming here. Much is my life enriched by the images of the great Niagara, of the vast lakes, of the heavenly sweetness of the prairie scenes, and, above all, by the heavenly region where I would so gladly have lived. My health, too, is materially benefited. I hope to come back better fitted for toil and care, as well as with beauteous memories to sustain me in them.
Affectionately always, &c.
To Miss R.
Chicago, August 4, 1848.
I HAVE hoped from time to time, dear ——, that I should receive a few lines from you, apprizing me how you are this summer, but a letter from Mrs. F—— lately comes to tell me that you are not better, but, at least when at Saratoga, worse.
So writing is of course fatiguing191, and I must not expect letters any more. To that I could make up my mind if I could hear that you were well again. I fear, if your malady192 disturbs you as much as it did, it must wear on your strength very much, and it seems in itself dangerous. However, it is good to think that your composure is such that disease can only do its legitimate193 work, and not undermine two ways,—the body with its pains, and the body through the mind with thoughts and fears of pains.
I should have written to you long ago except that I find little to communicate this summer, and little inclination194 to communicate that little; so what letters I have sent, have been chiefly to beg some from my friends. I have had home-sickness sometimes here, as do children for the home where they are even little indulged, in the boarding-school where they are only tolerated. This has been in the town, where I have felt the want of companionship, because the dissipation of fatigue195, or expecting soon to move again, has prevented my employing myself for myself; and yet there was nothing well worth looking at without. When in the country I have enjoyed myself highly, and my health has improved day by day. The characters of persons are brought out by the little wants and adventures of country life as you see it in this region; so that each one awakens196 a healthy interest; and the same persons who, if I saw them at these hotels, would not have a word to say that could fix the attention, become most pleasing companions; their topics are before them, and they take the hint. You feel so grateful, too, for the hospitality of the log-cabin; such gratitude197 as the hospitality of the rich, however generous, cannot inspire; for these wait on you with their domestics and money, and give of their superfluity only; but here the Master gives you his bed, his horse, his lamp, his grain from the field, his all, in short; and you see that he enjoys doing so thoroughly198, and takes no thought for the morrow; so that you seem in fields full of lilies perfumed with pure kindness; and feel, verily, that Solomon in all his glory could not have entertained you so much to the purpose. Travelling, too, through the wide green woods and prairies, gives a feeling both of luxury and repose199 that the sight of highly-cultivated country never can. There seems to be room enough for labor to pause and man to fold his arms and gaze, forgetting poverty, and care, and the thousand walls and fences that in the cultivated region must be built and daily repaired both for mind and body. Nature seems to have poured forth200 her riches so without calculation, merely to mark the fulness of her joy; to swell201 in larger strains the hymn202, “the one Spirit doeth all things veil, for its life is love.”
I will not ask you to write to me now, as I shall so soon be at home. Probably, too, I shall reserve a visit to B—— for another summer; I have been so much a rover that when once on the road I shall wish to hasten home.
Ever yours, M.
To the Same.
Cambridge, January 21, 1644.
MY DEAR ———: I am anxious to get a letter, telling me how you fare this winter in the cottage. Your neighbors who come this way do not give very favorable accounts of your looks; and, if you are well enough, I should like to see a few of those firm, well-shaped characters from your own hand. Is there no chance of your coming to Boston all this winter? I had hoped to see you for a few hours at least.
I wrote you one letter while at the West; I know not if it was ever received; it was sent by a private opportunity, one of those “traps to catch the unwary,” as they have been called. It was no great loss, if lost. I did not feel like writing letters while travelling. It took all my strength of mind to keep moving and to receive so many new impressions. Surely I never had so clear an idea before of the capacity to bless, of mere Earth, when fresh from the original breath of the creative spirit. To have this impression, one must see large tracts203 of wild country, where the traces of man’s inventions are too few and slight to break the harmony of the first design. It will not be so, long, even where I have been now; in three or four years those vast flowery plains will be broken up for tillage,—those shapely groves converted into logs and boards. I wished I could have kept on now, for two or three years, while yet the first spell rested on the scene. I feel much refreshed, even by this brief intimacy with Nature in an aspect of large and unbroken lineaments.
I came home with a treasure of bright pictures and suggestions, and seemingly well. But my strength, which had been sustained by a free, careless life in the open air, has yielded to the chills of winter, and a very little work, with an ease that is not encouraging. However, I have had the influenza204, and that has been about as bad as fever to everybody. Now I am pretty well, but much writing does not agree with me.
* * * I wish you were near enough for me to go in and see you now and then. I know that, sick or well, you are always serene205, and sufficient to yourself; but now you are so much shut up, it might animate206 existence agreeably to hear some things I might have to tell. * * *
To the Same.
* * * * *
Just as I was beginning to visit the institutions here, of a remedial and benevolent207 kind, I was stopped by influenza. So soon as I am quite well I shall resume the survey. I do not expect to do much, practically, for the suffering, but having such an organ of expression as the Tribune, any suggestions that are well grounded may be of use. I have always felt great interest for those women who are trampled208 in the mud to gratify the brute209 appetites of men, and I wished I might be brought, naturally, into contact with them. Now I am so, and I think I shall have much that is interesting to tell you when we meet.
I go on very moderately, for my strength is not great; but I am now connected with a person who is anxious I should not overtask it. I hope to do more for the paper by-and-by. At present, besides the time I spend in looking round and examining my new field, I am publishing a volume, of which you will receive a copy, called “Woman in the Nineteenth Century.” A part of my available time is spent in attending to it as it goes through the press; for, really, the work seems but half done when your book is written. I like being here; the streams of life flow free, and I learn much. I feel so far satisfied as to have laid my plans to stay a year and a half, if not longer, and to have told Mr. G—— that I probably shall do so. That is long enough for a mortal to look forward, and not too long, as I must look forward in order to get what I want from Europe.
Mr. Greeley is a man of genuine excellence210, honorable, benevolent, of an uncorrupted disposition, and of great, abilities. In modes of life and manners he is the man of the people, and of the American people. * * *
I rejoice to hear that your situation is improved. I hope to pass a day or two with you next summer, if you can receive me when I can come. I want to hear from you now and then, if it be only a line to let me know the state of your health. Love to Miss G——, and tell her I have the cologne-bottle on my mantle-piece now. I sent home for all the little gifts I had from friends, that my room might look more homelike. My window commands a most beautiful view, for we are quite out of the town, in a lovely place on the East River. I like this, as I can be in town when I will, and here have much retirement. You were right in supposing my signature is the star.
Ever affectionately yours.
To Her Brother, R.
Fishkill-Landing, Nov 28, 1844.
DEAR R.:
* * * * *
The seven weeks of proposed abode211 here draw to a close, and have brought what is rarest,—fruition, of the sort proposed from them. I have been here all the time, except that three weeks since I went down to New York, and with —— visited the prison at Sing-Sing. On Saturday we went up to Sing-Sing in a little way-boat, thus seeing that side of the river to much greater advantage than we can in the mammoth212 boats. We arrived in resplendent moonlight, by which we might have supposed the prisons palaces, if we had not known too well what was within.
On Sunday —— addressed the male convicts in a strain of most noble and pathetic eloquence213. They listened with earnest attention; many were moved to tears,—some, I doubt not, to a better life. I never felt such sympathy with an audience;—as I looked over that sea of faces marked with the traces of every ill, I felt that at least heavenly truth would not be kept out by self-complacency and a dependence214 on good appearances.
I talked with a circle of women, and they showed the natural aptitude215 of the sex for refinement216. These women—some black, and all from the lowest haunts of vice—showed a sensibility and a sense of propriety which would not have disgraced any place.
Returning, we had a fine storm on the river, clearing up with strong winds.
To Her Brother, A. B. F.
Rome, Jan. 20, 1849.
My Dear A.: Your letter and mother’s gave me the first account of your illness. Some letters were lost during the summer, I do not know how. It did seem very hard upon you to have that illness just after your settlement; but it is to be hoped we shall some time know a good reason for all that seems so strange. I trust you are now becoming fortified217 in your health, and if this could only be, feel as if things would go well with you in this difficult world. I trust you are on the threshold of an honorable and sometimes happy career. From many pains, many dark hours, let none of the progeny218 of Eve hope to escape! * * * *
Meantime, I hope to find you in your home, and make you a good visit there. Your invitation is sweet in its tone, and rouses a vision of summer woods and New England Sunday-morning bells.
It seems to me that mother is at last truly in her sphere, living with one of her children. Watch over her carefully, and don’t let her do too much. Her spirit is only all too willing,—but the flesh is weak, and her life so precious to us all! * * * *
To Mazzini.
“Al Cittadino Reppresentante del Popolo Romano.”
Rome, March 8, 1849.
Dear Mazzini: Though knowing you occupied by the most important affairs, I again feel impelled219 to write a few lines. What emboldens220 me is the persuasion221 that the best friends, in point of sympathy and intelligence,—the only friends of a man of ideas and of marked character,—must be women. You have your mother; no doubt you have others, perhaps many. Of that I know nothing; only I like to offer also my tribute of affection.
When I think that only two years ago you thought of coming into Italy with us in disguise, it seems very glorious that you are about to enter republican Rome as a Roman citizen. It seems almost the most sublime222 and poetical223 fact of history. Yet, even in the first thrill of joy, I felt “he will think his work but beginning, now.”
When I read from your hand these words, “II lungo esilio testè ricominciato, la vita non confortata, fuorchè d’affetti lontani e contesi, e la speranza lungamente protrata, e il desiderio che comincia a farmi si supremo, di dormire finalmente in pace, da chè non ho potuto, vivere in terra mia,”—when I read these words they made me weep bitterly, and I thought of them always with a great pang at the heart. But it is not so, dear Mazzini,—you do not return to sleep under the sod of Italy, but to see your thought springing up all over the soil. The gardeners seem to me, in point of instinctive224 wisdom or deep thought, mostly incompetent225 to the care of the garden; but on idea like this will be able to make use of any implements226. The necessity, it is to be hoped, will educate the men, by making them work. It is not this, I believe, which still keeps your heart so melancholy; for I seem to read the same melancholy in your answer to the Roman assembly, You speak of “few and late years,” but some full ones still remain. A century is not needed, nor should the same man, in the same form of thought, work too long on an age. He would mould and bind227 it too much to himself. Better for him to die and return incarnated228 to give the same truth on yet another side. Jesus of Nazareth died young; but had he not spoken and acted as much truth as the world could bear in his time? A frailty229, a perpetual short-coming, motion in a curve-line, seems the destiny of this earth.
The excuse awaits us elsewhere; there must be one,—for it is true, as said Goethe, “care is taken that the tree grow not up into the heavens.” Men like you, appointed ministers, must not be less earnest in their work; yet to the greatest, the day, the moment is all their kingdom, God takes care of the increase.
Farewell! For your sake I could wish at this moment to be an Italian and a man of action; but though I am an American, I am not even a woman of action; so the best I can do is to pray with the whole heart, “Heaven bless dear Mazzini!—cheer his heart, and give him worthy helpers to carry out his holy purposes.”
To Mr. And Mrs. Spring.
Florence, Dec. 12, 1840.
DEAR M. AND R.: * * * Your letter, dear R, was written in your noblest and most womanly spirit. I thank you warmly for your sympathy about my little boy. What he is to me, even you can hardly dream; you that have three, in whom the natural thirst of the heart was earlier satisfied, can scarcely know what my one ewe-lamb is to me. That he may live, that I may find bread for him, that I may not spoil him by overweening love, that I may grow daily better for his sake, are the ever-recurring thoughts,—say prayers,—that give their hue to all the current of my life.
But, in answer to what you say, that it is still better to give the world a living soul than a portion of my life in a printed book, it is true; and yet, of my book I could know whether it would be of some worth or not; of my child, I must wait to see what his worth will be. I play with him, my ever-growing mystery! but from the solemnity of the thoughts he brings is refuge only in God. Was I worthy to be parent of a soul, with its eternal, immense capacity for weal and woe230? “God be merciful to me a sinner!” comes so naturally to a mother’s heart!
* * * * *
What you say about the Peace way is deeply true; if any one see clearly how to work in that way, let him, in God’s name! Only, if he abstain from fighting against giant wrongs, let him be sure he is really and ardently231 at work undermining them, or, better still, sustaining the rights that are to supplant232 them. Meanwhile, I am not sure that I can keep my hands free from blood. Cobden is good; but if he had stood in Kossuth’s place, would he not have drawn his sword against the Austrian? You, could you let a Croat insult your wife, carry off your son to be an Austrian serf, and leave your daughter bleeding in the dust? Yet it is true that while Moses slew233 the Egyptian, Christ stood still to be spit upon; and it is true that death to man could do him no harm. You have the truth, you have the right, but could you act up to it in all circumstances? Stifled234 under the Roman priesthood, would you not have thrown it off with all your force? Would you have waited unknown centuries, hoping for the moment when you could see another method?
Yet the agonies of that baptism of blood I feel, O how deeply! in the golden June days of Rome. Consistent no way, I felt I should have shrunk back,—I could not have had it shed. Christ did not have to see his dear ones pass the dark river; he could go alone, however, in prophetic spirit. No doubt he foresaw the crusades.
In answer to what you say of ——, I wish the little effort I made for him had been wiselier applied235. Yet these are not the things one regrets. It does not do to calculate too closely with the affectionate human impulse. We must be content to make many mistakes, or we should move too slowly to help our brothers much.
To Her Brother, R.
Florence, Jan. 8, 1850.
My Dear R.: * * * * The way in which you speak of my marriage is such as I expected from you. Now that we have once exchanged words on these important changes in our lives, it matters little to write letters, so much has happened, and the changes are too great to be made clear in writing. It would not be worth while to keep the family thinking of me. I cannot fix precisely the period of my return, though at present it seems to me probable we may make the voyage in May or June. At first we should wish to go and make a little visit to mother. I should take counsel with various friends before fixing myself in any place; see what openings there are for me, &c. I cannot judge at all before I am personally in the United States, and wish to engage myself no way. Should I finally decide on the neighborhood of New York, I should see you all, often. I wish, however, to live with mother, if possible. We will discuss it on all sides when I come. Climate is one thing I must think of. The change from the Roman winter to that of New England might be very trying for Ossoli. In New York he would see Italians often, hear his native tongue, and feel less exiled. If we had our affairs in New York and lived in the neighboring country, we could find places as quiet as C———, more beautiful, and from which access to a city would be as easy by means of steam.
On the other hand, my family and most cherished friends are in New England. I shall weigh all advantages at the time, and choose as may then seem best.
I feel also the great responsibility about a child, and the mixture of solemn feeling with the joy its sweet ways and caresses236 give; yet this is only different in degree, not in kind, from what we should feel in other relations. We may more or less impede237 or brighten the destiny of all with whom we come in contact. Much as the child lies in our power, still God and Nature are there, furnishing a thousand masters to correct our erroneous, and fill up our imperfect, teachings. I feel impelled to try for good, for the sake of my child, most powerfully; but if I fail, I trust help will be tendered to him from some other quarter. I do not wish to trouble myself more than is inevitable238, or lose the simple, innocent pleasure of watching his growth from day to day, by thinking of his future. At present my care of him is to keep him pure, in body and mind, to give for body and mind simple nutriment when he requires it, and to play with him. Now he learns, playing, as we all shall when we enter a higher existence. With him my intercourse thus far has been precious, and if I do not well for him, he at least has taught me a great deal.
I may say of Ossoli, it would be difficult to help liking239 him, so sweet is his disposition, so disinterested240 without effort, so simply wise his daily conduct, so harmonious241 his whole nature. And he is a perfectly unconscious character, and never dreams that he does well. He is studying English, but makes little progress. For a good while you may not be able to talk freely with him, but you will like showing him your favorite haunts,—he is so happy in nature, so sweet in tranquil242 places.
TO ———.
What a difference it makes to come home to a child! How it fills up all the gaps of life just in the way that is most consoling, most refreshing243! Formerly I used to feel sad at that hour; the day had not been nobly spent,—I had not done my duty to myself or others, and I felt so lonely! Now I never feel lonely; for, even if my little boy dies, our souls will remain eternally united. And I feel infinite hope for him,—hope that he will serve God and man more loyally than I have done; and seeing how full he is of life, how much he can afford to throw away, I feel the inexhaustibleness of nature, and console myself for my own incapacities.
Madame Arconati is near me. We have had some hours of great content together, but in the last weeks her only child has been dangerously ill. I have no other acquaintance except in the American circle, and should not care to make any unless singularly desirable; for I want all my time for the care of my child, for my walks, and visits to objects of art, in which again I can find pleasure, end in the evening for study and writing. Ossoli is forming some taste for books; he is also studying English; he learns of Horace Sumner, to whom he teaches Italian in turn.
To Mr. And Mrs. S.
Florence, Feb. 6, 1850.
My Dear M. and R.: You have no doubt ere this received a letter written, I think, in December, but I must suddenly write again to thank you for the New Year’s letter. It was a sweet impulse that led you all to write together, and had its full reward in the pleasure you gave! I have said as little as possible about Ossoli and our relation, wishing my old friends to form their own impressions naturally, when they see us together. I have faith that all who ever knew me will feel that I have become somewhat milder, kinder, and more worthy to serve all who need, for my new relations. I have expected that those who have cared for me chiefly for my activity of intellect, would not care for him; but that those in whom the moral nature predominates would gradually learn to love and admire him, and see what a treasure his affection must be to me. But even that would be only gradually; for it is by acts, not by words, that one so simple, true, delicate and retiring, can be known. For me, while some of my friends have thought me exacting, I may say Ossoli has always outgone my expectations in the disinterestedness244, the uncompromising bounty, of his every act.
He was the same to his father as to me. His affections are few, but profound, and thoroughly acted out. His permanent affections are few, but his heart is always open to the humble104, suffering, heavy-laden245. His mind has little habitual246 action, except in a simple, natural poetry, that one not very intimate with him would never know anything about. But once opened to a great impulse, as it was to the hope of freeing his country, it rises to the height of the occasion, and stays there. His enthusiasm is quiet, but unsleeping. He is very unlike most Italians, but very unlike most Americans, too. I do not expect all who cared for me to care for him, nor is it of importance to him that they should. He is wholly without vanity. He is too truly the gentleman not to be respected by all persons of refinement. For the rest, if my life is free, and not too much troubled, if he can enjoy his domestic affections, and fulfil his duties in his own way, he will be content. Can we find this much for ourselves in bustling247 America the next three or four years? I know not, but think we shall come and try. I wish much to see you all, and exchange the kiss of peace. There will, I trust, be peace within, if not without. I thank you most warmly for your gift. Be assured it will turn to great profit. I have learned to be a great adept248 in economy, by looking at my little boy. I cannot bear to spend a cent for fear he may come to want. I understand now how the family-men get so mean, and shall have to begin soon to pray against that danger. My little Nino, as we call him for house and pet name, is in perfect health. I wash, and dress, and sew for him; and think I see a great deal of promise in his little ways, and shall know him better for doing all for him, though it is fatiguing and inconvenient249 at times. He is very gay and laughing, sometimes violent,—for he is come to the age when he wants everything in his own hands,—but, on the whole, sweet as yet, and very fond of me. He often calls me to kiss him. He says, “kiss,” in preference to the Italian word bàcio. I do not cherish sanguine250 visions about him, but try to do my best by him, and enjoy the present moment.
It was a nice account you gave of Miss Bremer. She found some “neighbors” as good as her own. You say she was much pleased by ——; could she know her, she might enrich the world with a portrait as full of little delicate traits as any in her gallery, and of a higher class than any in which she has been successful. I would give much that a competent person should paint ——. It is a shame she should die and leave the world no copy.
To Mr. Cass, Charge D’affaires Des Etats Unis D’amerique.
Florence, May 2, 1850.
Dear Mr. Cass: I shall most probably leave Florence and Italy the 8th or 10th of this month, and am not willing to depart without saying adieu to yourself. I wanted to write the 30th of April, but a succession of petty interruptions prevented. That was the day I saw you first, and the day the French first assailed251 Rome. What a crowded day that was! I had been to visit Ossoli in the morning, in the garden of the Vatican. Just after my return you entered. I then went to the hospital, and there passed the eight amid the groans252 of many suffering and some dying men. What a strange first of May it was, as I walked the streets of Rome by the early sunlight of the nest day! Those were to me grand and impassioned hours. Deep sorrow followed,—many embarrassments253, many pains! Let me once more, at parting, thank you for the sympathy you showed me amid many of these. A thousand years might pass, and you would find it unforgotten by me.
I leave Italy with profound regret, and with only a vague hope of returning. I could have lived here always, full of bright visions, and expanding in my faculties, had destiny permitted. May you be happy who remain here! It would be well worth while to be happy in Italy!
I had hoped to enjoy some of the last days, but the weather has been steadily bad since you left Florence. Since the 4th of April we have not had a fine day, and all our little plans for visits to favorite spots and beautiful objects, from which we have long been separated, have been marred254!
I sail in the barque Elizabeth for New York. She is laden with marble and rags—a very appropriate companionship for wares255 of Italy! She carries Powers’ statue of Calhoun. Adieu! Remember that we look to you to keep up the dignity of our country. Many important occasions are now likely to offer for the American (I wish I could write the Columbian) man to advocate,—more, to represent the cause of Truth and Freedom in the face of their foes256. Remember me as their lover, and your friend, M. O.
To ———.
Florence, April 16, 1860.
* * * There is a bark at Leghorn, highly spoken of, which sails at the end of this month, and we shall very likely take that. I find it imperatively257 necessary to go to the United States to make arrangements that may free me from care. Shall I be more fortunate if I go in person? I do not know. I am ill adapted to push my claims and pretensions258; but, at least, it will not be such slow work as passing from disappointment to disappointment here, where I wait upon the post-office, and must wait two or three months, to know the fate of any proposition.
I go home prepared to expect all that is painful and difficult. It will be a consolation to see my dear mother; and my dear brother E., whom I have not seen for ten years, is coming to New England this summer. On that account I wish to go this year.
* * * * *
May 10.—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 omissions259 are irreparable. The unpropitious, rainy weather delays us now from day to day, as our ship; the Elizabeth,—(look out for news of shipwreck260!) cannot finish taking in her cargo261 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.
To the Same.
Ship Elizabeth, off Gibraltar, June 8, 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 respite262 from care and pain as sea-sickness would permit. But scarcely was that enemy in some measure quelled263, 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 ministry264 softened265 by great love and the courage of womanly heroism266: The last days were truly terrible with disgusts and fatigues267; 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 expressive268 mould of man is thus lost in corruption269 before life has fled. He died yesterday morning, and was buried in deep water, the American Consul’s barge270 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 bleak271, cold wind. You cannot think how beautiful the whole thing was:—the decent array and sad reverence272 of the sailors; the many ships with their banners flying; the stern pillar of Hercules all bathed in roseate vapor273; the little white sails diving into the blue depths with that solemn spoil of the good man, so still, when he had been so agonized274 and gasping275 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 will not; 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 pointed170; he did not discern danger, but only thought it odd to see the old friend there in bed. It is vain by prudence276 to seek to evade277 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.
Letter from Hon. Lewis Cass, Jr., United States Charge D’affaires at Rome, to Mrs. E. K. Channing.
Legation des Etats Unis d’Amerique, Rome, May 10, 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 compliance278 with your request, I have the honor to state, succinctly279, 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 fugitives280 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 computed281 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 blanched282 heads; wild, visionary enthusiasts283; grave, heroic men, who, in the struggle for freedom, had ventured all, and lost all; nobles and beggars; bandits, felons284 and brigands285. Great excitement naturally existed; and, in the general apprehension286 which pervaded287 all classes, that acts of personal violence and outrage288 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 inmates289.
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 derive290 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 passionate14 fervor291 of the Italian nature, of her whose sympathy and compassion292, 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 admiration293 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 alludes294 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 endearment295, and the announcement of her death was received with a degree of sorrow not often bestowed296 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 lodge297 I met the Marquis Ossoli, and a few moments afterward298 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 confidential299 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.
The End
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1
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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2
con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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3
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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4
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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5
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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7
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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8
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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9
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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10
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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11
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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12
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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13
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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14
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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15
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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16
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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17
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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18
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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20
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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21
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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24
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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25
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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26
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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27
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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28
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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29
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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30
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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31
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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32
intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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33
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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34
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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35
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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36
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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37
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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38
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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39
craves
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| 渴望，热望( crave的第三人称单数 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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40
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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42
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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43
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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44
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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45
condensation
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| n.压缩，浓缩；凝结的水珠 | |
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46
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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47
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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48
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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49
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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50
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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51
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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52
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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53
plausibility
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| n. 似有道理, 能言善辩 | |
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54
mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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55
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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56
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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57
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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58
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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59
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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60
eventual
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| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
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61
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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62
vegetate
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| v.无所事事地过活 | |
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63
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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64
calumniated
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| v.诽谤，中伤( calumniate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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66
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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67
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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68
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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69
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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70
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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71
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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72
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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73
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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74
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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75
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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76
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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77
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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78
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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79
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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80
conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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81
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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82
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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83
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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84
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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85
physiology
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| n.生理学，生理机能 | |
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86
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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87
painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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88
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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89
venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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91
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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92
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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93
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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94
soothes
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| v.安慰( soothe的第三人称单数 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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95
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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96
succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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97
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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98
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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99
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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100
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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101
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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102
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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103
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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104
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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105
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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106
benignity
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| n.仁慈 | |
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107
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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109
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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110
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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111
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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112
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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113
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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114
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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115
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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116
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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117
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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118
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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119
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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120
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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121
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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122
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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123
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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124
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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125
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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126
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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127
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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128
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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129
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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130
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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131
rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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132
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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133
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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134
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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135
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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136
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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137
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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138
talismanic
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| adj.护身符的，避邪的 | |
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139
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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140
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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141
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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142
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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143
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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144
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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145
piazzas
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| n.广场，市场( piazza的名词复数 ) | |
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146
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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147
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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149
exasperates
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| n.激怒，触怒( exasperate的名词复数 )v.激怒，触怒( exasperate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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150
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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151
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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152
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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153
spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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154
fissure
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| n.裂缝；裂伤 | |
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155
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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156
exultingly
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| 兴高采烈地，得意地 | |
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157
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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158
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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159
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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160
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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161
boding
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| adj.凶兆的，先兆的n.凶兆，前兆，预感v.预示，预告，预言( bode的现在分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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162
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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163
fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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164
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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165
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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166
durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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167
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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168
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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169
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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170
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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171
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
recoils
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| n.（尤指枪炮的）反冲，后坐力( recoil的名词复数 )v.畏缩( recoil的第三人称单数 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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173
exemptions
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| n.（义务等的）免除( exemption的名词复数 )；免（税）；（收入中的）免税额 | |
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174
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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175
postponement
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| n.推迟 | |
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176
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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177
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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178
sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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179
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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180
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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181
resounds
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的第三人称单数 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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182
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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183
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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184
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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185
secreting
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的现在分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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186
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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187
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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188
hemlocks
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| 由毒芹提取的毒药( hemlock的名词复数 ) | |
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189
bluffs
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| 恐吓( bluff的名词复数 )； 悬崖； 峭壁 | |
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190
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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191
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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192
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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193
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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194
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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195
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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196
awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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197
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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198
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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199
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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200
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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201
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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202
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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203
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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204
influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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205
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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206
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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207
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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208
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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209
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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210
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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211
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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212
mammoth
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| n.长毛象；adj.长毛象似的，巨大的 | |
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213
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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214
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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215
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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216
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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217
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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218
progeny
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| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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219
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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220
emboldens
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的第三人称单数 ) | |
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221
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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222
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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223
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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224
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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225
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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226
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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227
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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228
incarnated
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| v.赋予（思想、精神等）以人的形体( incarnate的过去式和过去分词 )；使人格化；体现；使具体化 | |
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229
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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230
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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231
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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232
supplant
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| vt.排挤；取代 | |
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233
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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234
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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235
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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236
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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237
impede
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，阻止 | |
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238
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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239
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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240
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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241
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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242
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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243
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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244
disinterestedness
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245
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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246
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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247
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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248
adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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249
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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250
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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251
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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252
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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253
embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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254
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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255
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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256
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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257
imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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258
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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259
omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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260
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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261
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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262
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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263
quelled
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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264
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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265
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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266
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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267
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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268
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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269
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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270
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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271
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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272
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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273
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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274
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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275
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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276
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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277
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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278
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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279
succinctly
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| adv.简洁地；简洁地，简便地 | |
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280
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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281
computed
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| adj.[医]计算的，使用计算机的v.计算，估算( compute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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282
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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283
enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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284
felons
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| n.重罪犯( felon的名词复数 )；瘭疽；甲沟炎；指头脓炎 | |
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285
brigands
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| n.土匪，强盗( brigand的名词复数 ) | |
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286
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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287
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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288
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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289
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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290
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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291
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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292
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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293
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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294
alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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295
endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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296
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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297
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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298
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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299
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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