hide Sorting

You can sort these results in two ways:

By entity
Chronological order for dates, alphabetical order for places and people.
By position (current method)
As the entities appear in the document.

You are currently sorting in descending order. Sort in ascending order.

hide Most Frequent Entities

The entities that appear most frequently in this document are shown below.

Entity Max. Freq Min. Freq
Goethe 138 0 Browse Search
Florence (Italy) 90 0 Browse Search
Angelo Eugene Ossoli 76 0 Browse Search
Margaret Fuller 69 5 Browse Search
Marchesa Ossoli 52 0 Browse Search
Michel Angelo 48 0 Browse Search
Groton (Massachusetts, United States) 47 5 Browse Search
France (France) 46 0 Browse Search
Department de Ville de Paris (France) 44 0 Browse Search
Rieti (Italy) 44 0 Browse Search
View all entities in this document...

Browsing named entities in a specific section of Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing). Search the whole document.

Found 460 total hits in 226 results.

... 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 ...
veil rent away; how she wished to stay apart, and weep the whole day. I do not love her now with passion, but I still feel towards her as I can to no other woman. I thought of all this as I looked at Madame Recamier. to R. W. E. 7th Feb., 1843.—I saw the letter of your new friend, and liked it much; only, at this distance, one could not be sure whether it was the nucleus or the train of a comet, that lightened afar. The daemons are not busy enough at the births of most men. Theylieve me superlatively yours, Margaret. The following letter seems to refer, under an Eastern guise, and with something of Eastern exaggeration of compliment too, to some such native sterilities in her correspondent:— to R. W. E. 23d Feb., 1840.—I am like some poor traveller of the desert, who saw, at early morning, a distant palm, and toiled all day to reach it. All day he toiled. The unfeeling sun shot pains into his temples; the burning air, filled with sand, checked his brea<
he drapery. A little Psyche, by a pupil of Bartolini, pleases us much thus far. The forlorn sweetness with which she sits there, crouched down like a bruised butterfly, and the languid tenacity of her mood, are very touching. The Mercury and Ganymede with the Eagle, by Thorwaldsen, are still as fine as on first acquaintance. Thorwaldsen seems the grandest and simplest of modern sculptors. There is a breadth in his thought, a freedom in his design, we do not see elsewhere. A spaniel, by Gott, shows great talent, and knowledge of the animal. The head is admirable; it is so full of playfulness and of doggish knowingness. I am tempted, by my recollection of the pleasure it gave her, to insert here a little poem, addressed to Margaret by one of her friends, on the beautiful imaginative picture in the gallery of 1840, called The Dream. The dream A youth, with gentle brow and tender cheek, Dreams in a place so silent, that no bird, No rustle of the leaves his slumbers break;
Damascene perfection. It has been of like use to de Vigny, though not in equal degree. De Vigny passed,—bDe Vigny passed,—but for manly steadfastness, he would probably say wasted,—his best years in the army. He is now about forty; she could lead any life but one of conquest. As De Vigny was gradually undeceived, he says: Loaded with an more than anything else, engaged the attention of De Vigny, was the false position of two beings towards a fa because with profounder connoissance du fait. For De Vigny is not a poet; he has only an eye to perceive the ill. How would you provide for the poet bon homme De Vigny?—from a joint-stock company Poet's Fund, or how? ing as the leisure hours of an interesting man. De Vigny writes in an excellent style; soft, fresh, deliberopriate, rather than distinguished, or beautiful. De Vigny is a perfect gentleman; and his refinement is rather part lie fallow. I have not made a note upon De Vigny's notions of abnegation, which he repeats as ofte
Von Waagen (search for this): chapter 4
hich these collections were at first contained, made a favorite place of meeting for Margaret and a few of her friends, who were lovers of these works. First led perhaps by Goethe, afterwards by the love she herself conceived for them, she read everything that related to Michel Angelo and Raphael. She read, pen in hand, Quatremere de Quincy's lives of those two painters, and I have her transcripts and commentary before me. She read Condivi, Vasari, Benvenuto Cellini, Duppa, Fuseli, and Von Waagen,—great and small. Every design of Michel, the four volumes of Raphael's designs, were in the rich portfolios of her most intimate friend. I have been very happy, she writes, with four hundred and seventy designs of Raphael in my possession for a week. These fine entertainments were shared with many admirers, and, as I now remember them, certain months about the years 1839, 1840, seem colored with the genius of these Italians. Our walls were hung with prints of the Sistine fres
De Recamier (search for this): chapter 4
way, of her strong affections. At Mr. G.'s we looked over prints, the whole evening, in peace. Nothing fixed my attention so much as a large engraving of Madame Recamier in her boudoir. I have so often thought over the intimacy between her and Madame De Stael. It is so true that a woman may be in love with a woman, and a mays on the dark flower. Why did Socrates love Alcibiades? Why did Korner love Schneider? How natural is the love of Wallenstein for Max; that of 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 always echo and weep the whole day. I do not love her now with passion, but I still feel towards her as I can to no other woman. I thought of all this as I looked at Madame Recamier. to R. W. E. 7th Feb., 1843.—I saw the letter of your new friend, and liked it much; only, at this distance, one could not be sure whether it was
Crawfords Orpheus (search for this): chapter 4
of 1839, Boston was still more rightfully adorned with the Allston Gallery; and the sculptures of our compatriots Greenough, and Crawford, and Powers, were brought hither. The following lines were addressed by Margaret to the Orpheus:— Crawfords Orpheus. Each Orpheus must to the abyss descend, For only thus the poet can be wise,— Must make the sad Persephone his friend, And buried love to second life arise; Again his love must lose, through too much love, Must lose his life by living lifeOrpheus must to the abyss descend, For only thus the poet can be wise,— Must make the sad Persephone his friend, And buried love to second life arise; Again his love must lose, through too much love, Must lose his life by living life too true; For what he sought below has passed above, Already done is all that he would do; Must tune all being with his single lyre; Must melt all rocks free from their primal pain; Must search all nature with his one soul's fire; Must bind anew all forms in heavenly chain: If he already sees what he must do, Well may he shade his eyes from the far-shining view. Margaret's love of art, like that of most cultivated persons in this country, was not at all technical, but truly a sympathy with<
strong, and the strong the beautiful; the mute seeks the eloquent, &c.; the butterfly settles always on the dark flower. Why did Socrates love Alcibiades? Why did Korner love Schneider? How natural is the love of Wallenstein for Max; that of 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 always echoing in my ear; all poetic thoughts clustered round the dear image. Tonly when, on talking with people, I find I tell them what they did not know, that my confidence at all returns. My verses,—I am ashamed when I think there is scarce a line of poetry in them,—all rhetorical and impassioned, as Goethe said of De Stael. However, such as they are, they have been overflowing drops from the somewhat bitter cup of my existence. How can I ever write with this impatience of detail? I shall never be an artist; I have no patient love of execution; I am deli
hought she had been left at the foundling hospital, as not worth a parent's care, and that now, grown up, she was trying to prove at once her parentage and her charms by certificates which might be headed, Innocent Adultery, Celestial Crime, &c. The slight acquaintance I had with Hugo, and company, did not dispel these impressions. And I thought Chateaubriand (far too French for my taste also,) belonged to l'ancien regime, and that Beranger and Courier stood apart. Nodier, Paul de Kock, Sue, Jules Janin, I did not know, except through the absurd reports of English reviewers; Le Maistre and Lamennais, as little. But I have now got a peep at this galaxy. I begin to divine the meaning of St. Simonianism, Cousinism, and the movement which the same causes have produced in belles-lettres. I perceive that la jeune France is the legitimate, though far younger sister of Germany; taught by her, but not born of her, but of a common mother. I see, at least begin to see, what she has l
he same love which angels feel, where— Sie fragen nicht nach Mann und Weib. It is regulated by the same law as that of love between persons of different sexes; only it is purely intellectual and spiritual. Its law is the desire of the spirit to realize a whole, which makes it seek in another being what it finds not in itself. Thus the beautiful seek the strong, and the strong the beautiful; the mute seeks the eloquent, &c.; the butterfly settles always on the dark flower. Why did Socrates love Alcibiades? Why did Korner love Schneider? How natural is the love of Wallenstein for Max; that of 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 always echoing in my ear; all poetic thoughts clustered round the dear image. This love was a key which unlocked for me many a treasure which I still possess; it was the carbuncle which cast light into many of t
narrative, like a Greek tragedy, should suppose the chorus always on the stage, sympathizing and sympathized with by the queen of the scene. Yet I remember these persons as a fair, commanding troop, every one of them adorned by some splendor of beauty, of grace, of talent, or of character, and comprising in their band persons who have since disclosed sterling worth and elevated aims in the conduct of life. Three beautiful women,—either of whom would have been the fairest ornament of Papanti's Assemblies, but for the presence of the other,—were her friends. One of these early became, and long remained, nearly the central figure in Margaret's brilliant circle, attracting to herself, by her grace and her singular natural eloquence, every feeling of affection, hope, and pride. Two others I recall, whose rich and cultivated voices in song were,—one a little earlier, the other a little later,— the joy of every house into which they came; and, indeed, Margaret's taste for music
... 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 ...