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Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing), chapter 3 (search)
higher sense of duty in the relationships which remain. Dearest mother is worn to a shadow. Sometimes, when I look on her pale face, and think of all her grief, and the cares and anxieties which now beset her, I am appalled by the thought that she may not continue with us long. Nothing sustains me now but the thought that God, who saw fit to restore me to life when I was so very willing to leave it,—more so, perhaps, than I shall ever be again,—must have some good work for me to do. Nov. 3, 1835.—I thought I should be able to write ere now, how our affairs were settled, but that time has not come yet. My father left no will, and, in consequence, our path is hedged in by many petty difficulties. He has left less property than we had anticipated, for he was not fortunate in his investments in real estate. There will, however, be enough to maintain my mother, and educate the children decently. I have often had reason to regret being of the softer sex, and never more than now<
Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing), chapter 4 (search)
e filled with experiments in this kind. Margaret, in her turn, made many vain attempts, and, to a lover of nature, who knows that every day has new and inimitable lights and shades, one of these descriptions is as vapid as the raptures of a citizen arrived at his first meadow. Of course, he is charmed, but, of course, he cannot tell what he sees, or what pleases him. Yet Margaret often speaks with a certain tenderness and beauty of the impressions made upon her. to—— Fishkill, 25 Nov., 1844.—You would have been happy as I have been in the company of the mountains. They are companions both bold and calm. They exhilarate and they satisfy. To live, too, on the bank of the great river so long, has been the realization of a dream. Though I have been reading and thinking, yet this has been my life. After they were all in bed, she writes from the Manse, in Concord, I went out, and walked till near twelve. The moonlight filled my heart. These embowering elms stood<
Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing), V. Conversations in Boston. (search)
r account by saying:— Miss Fuller's thoughts were much illustrated, and all was said with the most captivating address and grace, and with beautiful modesty. The position in which she placed herself with respect to the rest, was entirely ladylike, and companionable. She told what she intended, the earnest purpose with which she came, and, with great tact, indicated the indiscretions that might spoil the meeting. Here is Margaret's own account of the first days. to R. W. E. 25th Nov., 1839.—My class is prosperous. I was so fortunate as to rouse, at once, the tone of simple earnestness, which can scarcely, when once awakened, cease to vibrate. All seem in a glow, and quite as receptive as I wish. They question and examine, yet follow leadings; and thoughts, not opinions, have ruled the hour every time. There are about twenty-five members, and every one, I believe, full of interest. The first time, ten took part in the conversation;—the last, still more. Mrs. ——ca
Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing), chapter 11 (search)
n the construction of good tenements, calculated to improve the condition of the working people. to R. W. E. Paris, Nov. 16, 1846.—I meant to write on my arrival in London, six weeks ago; but as it was not what is technically called the seasoloons, and, above all, the private gardens open, and good music on the little lake. to—. Rome, morning of the 17th Nov., 1847.— It seems great folly to send the enclosed letter. I have written it in my nightly fever. All day I dissipate myy are people whom I could love and live with. Bread and grapes among them would suffice me. to her mother. Rome, Nov. 16, 1848.—Of other circumstances which complicate my position I cannot write. Were you here, I would confide in you fulleof; and if the good be not always sufficient, in our case it is; so let us say grace to our dinner of herbs. Florence, Nov. 7.—Dearest Mother,—Of all your endless acts and words of love, never was any so dear to me as your last letter;—so