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Massachusetts (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 10
lieve that the whole edition was but five hundred copies. I can testify to the vast influence produced by this periodical, even upon those who came to it a year or two after its first appearance, and it seems to me, even now, that in spite of its obvious defects, no later periodical has had so fresh an aroma, or smacked so of the soil of spring. When the unwearied Theodore Parker attempted, half a dozen years after, to embody the maturer expression of the same phase of thought in the Massachusetts quarterly review, he predicted that the new periodical would be The Dial, with a beard. But the result was disappointment. It was all beard, and no Dial. During the first year of the Dial's existence, it contained but little from the editor,--four short articles, the Essay on critics, Dialogue between poet and critic, The Allston exhibition, and Menzel's view of Goethe, --and two of what may be called fantasy-pieces, Leila, and The Magnolia of Lake Pontchartrain. The second volume
Paestum (Italy) (search for this): chapter 10
oma and spirit of Western life. It is almost the only book which makes that great region look attractive to any but the energetic and executive side of man's nature. In this point of view even her literary episodes seem in place; it is pleasant to think that such books as she describes could be read upon the prairies. In the narrative of most travellers it would seem inappropriate to say that they stopped in Chicago and read a poem. It would seem like being offered a New York Tribune at Paestum. But when Margaret Fuller reads Philip Van Artevelde, by the lake shore, just in the suburbs of the busy city, all seems appropriate and harmonized, and the moral that it yields her is fit to be remembered for years. In Chicago I read again Philip Van Artevelde, and certain passages in it will always be in my mind associated with the deep sound of the lake, as heard in the night. I used to read a short time at night, and then open the blind to look out. The moon would be full upon t
New Jersey (New Jersey, United States) (search for this): chapter 10
which held them back while they urged them forward. Their voyage was very long, and the same shadow still appeared to hang over them. The captain of the barque, in whom they had placed the greatest confidence, soon sickened and died of malignant small-pox, and was buried off Gibraltar. They sailed thence on June 9th. Two days after, the little Angelo was attacked with the same fearful disease, and only recovered after an illness that long seemed hopeless. On July 15th, they made the New Jersey coast at noon, and stood to the north-east, the weather being thick, and the wind south-east. The passengers packed their trunks, assured that they should be landed at New York the next morning. By nine o'clock the wind had risen to a gale, and this, with the current, swept them much farther to the north than was supposed. At two and a half, A. M., the mate in command took soundings, found twenty-one fathoms of water, pronounced all safe, and retired to his berth. One hour afterwards,
Rieti (Italy) (search for this): chapter 10
ded on opposite beds, meet in commendation of her universal kindness. She was married in Italy, during the year 1847, to Giovanni Angelo, Marquis Ossoli,--a man younger than herself, and of less intellectual culture, but of simple and noble nature. He had given up rank and station in the cause of the Roman Republic, while all the rest of his family had espoused the other side; and it was this bond of sympathy which first united them. Their child, Angelo Philip Eugene Ossoli, was born at Rieti, September 5th, 1848. After the fall of the republic it was necessary for them to leave Rome, and this fact, joined with her desire to print in America her history of the Italian struggle, formed the main reasons for their return to this country. They sailed from Leghorn, May 17th, 1850, in the barque Elizabeth, Captain Hasty. Singular anticipations of danger seem to have hung over their departure. Beware of the sea had been a warning given Ossoli by a fortune-teller, in his youth, and
Providence, R. I. (Rhode Island, United States) (search for this): chapter 10
sus, and nearly the whole first volume of Richter's Titan. With the Italian class, I read parts of Tasso, Petrarch,whom they came to almost adore,--Ariosto, Alfieri, and the whole hundred cantos of the Divina Commedia, with the aid of the fine Athenaeum copy, Flaxman's designs, and all the best commentaries. This last piece of work was and will be truly valuable to myself. She was invited, in 1837, to become a teacher in a private school just organized, on Mr. Alcott's plan, in Providence, R. I. The proposal is, she wrote, that I shall teach the elder girls my favorite branches for four hours a day,choosing my own hours and arranging the course,--for a thousand dollars a year, if upon trial I am well pleased enough to stay. This was a flattering offer, and certainly shows the intellectual reputation she had won. She accepted it, for the sake of her family, though it involved the necessity of leaving the friends and advantages which Boston had given. She had also to abandon h
Merrimack (United States) (search for this): chapter 10
nly be known through the sympathy of the imagination, the Indians. There is no book of travels, except, perhaps, Mrs. Jameson's, which gives more access to those finer traits of Indian character that are disappearing so fast amid persecution and demoralization. But the book as a whole, is very fragmentary and episodical, and in this respect, as well as in the wide range of merit and demerit in the verses here and there interspersed, it reminds one of Thoreau's Week on the Concord and Merrimack rivers. It is hardly possible, however, to regret these episodes, since one of them contains that rare piece of childish autobiography, Mariana; which is however separated from its context in her collected works. In 1844. she removed to New York. It is not the least of Horace Greeley's services to the nation, that he was willing to entrust the literary criticisms of the Tribune to one whose standard of culture was so far above that of his readers or his own. Nevertheless, there she remai
Maine (Maine, United States) (search for this): chapter 10
kable that he should play them together. If we have a stirring pulpit orator, he must try his hand on a novel; if a popular editor, he must write a history of the rebellion. Margaret Fuller, under the same influence, wrote on painting and music, and of course wrote badly. As to this whole charge of vanity, indeed, there have certainly been great exaggerations. She had by inheritance certain unpleasant tricks of manner, which gave the impression, as Emerson said, of a rather mountainous Me. She was accustomed to finding herself among inferiors, and lorded it a little in her talk. She was also obliged, as a woman, to fight harder than others, first for an education and then for a career. All these influences marred her, in some degree; and those whom her criticisms wounded, made the most of the result. But though her most private diaries and letters have been set before the public, I do not see that anything has been produced which shows a petty or conceited disposition, while
Europe (search for this): chapter 10
thus brought strangers together. Margaret Fuller is connected, slightly but firmly, with my earliest recollections. We were born and bred in the same town (Cambridge, Massachusetts), and I was the playmate of her younger brothers. Their family then lived at the old Brattle house, which still stands behind its beautiful lindens, though the great buildings of the University Press now cover the site of the old-fashioned garden, whose formal fishponds and stone spring-house wore an air of European stateliness to our home-bred eyes. There I dimly remember the discreet elder sister, book in hand, watching over the gambols of the lovely little Ellen, who became, long after, the wife of my near kinsman, Ellery Channing. This later connection cemented a new tie, and led to a few interviews m maturer years with Margaret Fuller, and to much intercourse with others of the family. It is well to mention even such slight ties of association as these, for they unconsciously influence one's i
Fredericksburg, Va. (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 10
ther, and that the anguish may be brief. Her prayer was fulfilled. The precious manuscript, for whose publication her friends and the friends of Italy had looked with eagerness, was lost in the shipwreck. Her remaining works were reprinted in Boston, a few years later, under the careful editorship of her brother Arthur;--that Chaplain Fuller, who had been educated by her self-sacrifice, and who afterwards gained a place beside hers, in the heart of the nation, by his heroic death at Fredericksburg, during the late rebellion. Her biography has also been amply written by the friends whom she would most readily have selected for the task, Messrs. Emerson, Clarke, and Channing. Since her day, American literature has greatly widened its base, but has raised its summit no higher. There is a multiplicity of books and magazines, and a vast increase of untrained literary activity. Yet, not only has she had no successor among women, but we still miss throughout our criticism her cultu
Cambridge (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 10
ects. She afterwards gave me, as a reason for her confidence, that! looked like one who would enjoy Margaret Fuller's writings, --these being, as I found, the object of her special admiration. I certainly took the remark for a compliment; and it was, at any rate, a touching tribute to the woman whose intellectual influence thus brought strangers together. Margaret Fuller is connected, slightly but firmly, with my earliest recollections. We were born and bred in the same town (Cambridge, Massachusetts), and I was the playmate of her younger brothers. Their family then lived at the old Brattle house, which still stands behind its beautiful lindens, though the great buildings of the University Press now cover the site of the old-fashioned garden, whose formal fishponds and stone spring-house wore an air of European stateliness to our home-bred eyes. There I dimly remember the discreet elder sister, book in hand, watching over the gambols of the lovely little Ellen, who became, lo
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