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.

... 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 ...
Paul Kock (search for this): chapter 4
many. I thought 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
ll, then choose; I ever revered her, for I was not sure that I could have resisted the call of the Now, could have left the spirit, and gone to God. And, at a more ambitious age, I could not have refused the philosopher. But I hoped from her steadfastness, and I thought I heard the last tones of a purified life:—Gretchen, in the golden cloud, raised above all past delusions, worthy to redeem and upbear the wise man, who stumbled into the pit of error while searching for truth. Still, in Andre and in Jacques, I traced the same high morality of one who had tried the liberty of circumstance only to learn to appreciate the liberty of law, to know that license is the foe of freedom. And, though the sophistry of passion in these books disgusted <*> dank and dirty ground I thought she had cast aside the slough of her past life, and began a new existence beneath the sun of a true Ideal. But here (in the Lettres d'un Voyageur) what do I see? An unfortunate bewailing her loneliness,
her correspondent's calendar. She signalized saints' days, All-Souls, and All-Saints, by poems, which had for her a mystical value. She remarked a preestablished harmony of the names of her personal friends, as well as of her historical favorites; that of Emanuel, for Swedenborg; and Rosencrantz, for the head of the Rosicrucians. If Christian Rosencrantz, she said, is not a made name, the genius of the age interfered in the baptismal rite, as in the cases of the archangels of art, Michael and Raphael, and in giving the name of Emanuel to the captain of the New Jerusalem. Sub rosa crux, I think; is the true derivation, and not the chemical one, generation, corruption, &c. In this spirit, she soon surrounded herself with a little mythology of her own. She had a series of anniversaries, which she kept. Her seal-ring of the flying Mercury had its legend. She chose the Sistrum for her emblem, and had it carefully drawn with a view to its being engraved on a gem. And I know no
Thomas Carlyle (search for this): chapter 4
dian lady. If you use it for a watch-pocket, hang it, when you travel, at the head of your bed, and you may dream of Niagara. If you use it for a purse, you can put in it alms for poets and artists, and the subscription-money you receive for Mr. Carlyle's book. His book, as it happened, you gave me as a birthday gift, and you may take this as one to you; for, on yours, was W.'s birthday, J.'s wedding-day, and the day of——'s death, and we set out on this journey. Perhaps there is something about it on the purse. The number five which nature loves. is repeated on it. Carlyle's book I have, in some sense, read. It is witty, full of pictures, as usual. I would have gone through with it, if only for the sketch of Samson, and two or three bits of fun which happen to please me. No doubt it may be of use to rouse the unthinking to a sense of those great dangers and sorrows. But how open is he to his own assault. He rails himself out of breath at the short-sighted, and yet sees
eceive for Mr. Carlyle's book. His book, as it happened, you gave me as a birthday gift, and you may take this as one to you; for, on yours, was W.'s birthday, J.'s wedding-day, and the day of——'s death, and we set out on this journey. Perhaps there is something about it on the purse. The number five which nature loves. is repeated on it. Carlyle's book I have, in some sense, read. It is witty, full of pictures, as usual. I would have gone through with it, if only for the sketch of Samson, and two or three bits of fun which happen to please me. No doubt it may be of use to rouse the unthinking to a sense of those great dangers and sorrows. But how open is he to his own assault. He rails himself out of breath at the short-sighted, and yet sees scarce a step before him. There is no valuable doctrine in his book, except the Goethean, Do to-day the nearest duty. Many are ready for that, could they but find the way. This he does not show. His proposed measures say nothing. Edu
wisdom, and sometimes more than all. None recurs with more frequency, at one period, in her journals, than the debate with herself, whether she shall make literature a profession. Shall it be woman, or shall it be artist? Woman, or artist? Margaret resolved, again and again, to devote herself no more to these disappointing forms of men and women, but to the children of the muse. The dramatis personoe, she said, of my poems shall henceforth be chosen from the children of immortal Muse. I fix my affections no more on these frail forms. But it was vain; she rushed back again to persons, with a woman's devotion. Her pen was a non-conductor. She always took it up with some disdain, thinking it a kind of impiety to attempt to report a life so warm and cordial, and wrote on the fly-leaf of her journal,— Scrivo sol per sfogar l'interno. Since you went away, she said, I have thought of many things I might have told you, but I could not bear to be eloquent and po
Don Quixote (search for this): chapter 4
have seen in Victor Hugo, and as good as Schiller. Stello is a bolder attempt. It is the history of three poets,—Gilbert, Andre Chenier, Chatterton. He has also written a drama called Chatterton, inferior to the story here. The marvellous boy seems to have captivated his imagination marvellously. In thought, these productions are worthless; for taste, beauty of sentiment, and power of description, remarkable. His advocacy of the poets' cause is about as effective and well-planned as Don Quixote's tourney with the wind-mill. How would you provide for the poet bon homme De Vigny?—from a joint-stock company Poet's Fund, or how? His translation of Othello, which I glanced at, is good for a Frenchman. Among his poems, La Fregate, La Serieuse, Madame de Soubise, and Dolorida, please me especially. The last has an elegiac sweetness and finish, which are rare. It also makes a perfect gem of a cabinet picture. Some have a fine strain of natural melody, and give you at once th
he uncertain science of mesmerism and its goblin brood, which have been rife in recent years. She had a feeling that she ought to have been a man, and said of herself, A man's ambition with a woman's heart, is an evil lot. In some verses which she wrote To the Moon, occur these lines:— But if I steadfast gaze upon thy face, A human secret, like my own, I trace; For, through the woman's smile looks the male eye. And she found something of true portraiture in a disagreeable novel of Balzac's, Le Livre Mystique, in which an equivocal figure exerts alternately a masculine and a feminine influence on the characters of the plot. Of all this nocturnal element in her nature she was very conscious, and was disposed, of course, to give it as fine names as it would carry, and to draw advantage from it. Attica, she said to a friend, is your province, Thessaly is mine: Attica produced the marble wonders of the great geniuses; but Thessaly is the land of magic. I have a gr
Thorwaldsen (search for this): chapter 4
Here are some notes on the Athenaeum Gallery of Sculpture, in August, 1840, which she sent me in manuscript:— Here are many objects worth study. There is Thorwaldsen's Byron. This is the truly beautiful, the ideal Byron. This head is quite free from the got-up, caricatured air of disdain, which disfigures most likenesses och 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 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
r. George Sand disappoints me, as almost all beings have, especially since I have been brought close to her person by the Lettres d'un Voyageur. Her remarks on Lavater seem really shallow, and hasty, à la mode du genre femenin. No self-ruling Aspasia she, but a frail woman mourning over a lot. Any peculiarity in her destiny seems accidental. She is forced to this and that, to earn her bread forsooth! Yet her style,—with what a deeply smouldering fire it burns!—not vehement, but intense, more unknown? Shall we multiply our connections, and thus make them still more superficial? I would go into the crowd, and meet men for the day, to help them for the day, but for that intercourse which most becomes us. Pericles, Anaxagoras, Aspasia, Cleone, is circle wide enough for me. I should think all the resources of my nature, and all the tribute it could enforce from external nature, none too much to furnish the banquet for this circle. But where to find fit, though few, represe
... 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 ...