Last, having thus revealed all I could love
And having received all love bestowed on it,
I would die: so preserving through my course
God full on me, as I was full on men:
And He would grant my prayer—‘I have gone through
All loveliness of life; make more for me,
If not for men,—or take me to Thyself,
Eternal, Infinite Love!’
Till another open for me
In God's Eden-land unknown,
With an angel at the doorway,
White with gazing at His Throne;
And a saint's voice in the palm-trees, singing,—‘all is lost, and won.’
La ne venimmo: e lo scaglion primaio
Bianco marmo éra si pulito e terso,
Ch‘ io mi specchiava in esso, qual io paio
Era'l secondo tinto, piu che perso,
D'una petrina ruvida ed arsiccia,
Crepata per lo lungo e per traverse.
Lo terzo, che di sopra s'ammassiccia,
Porfido mi parea si fiammegiante,
Come sangue che fuor di vena spiccia.
Sopra questa teneva ambo le piante
L'angel di Dio, sedendo in su la soglia,
Che mi sembiava pietra di diamante.
Per LI tre gradi su di buona voglia
Mi trasse 'l duca mio, dicendo, chiedi
Umilmente che'l serrame scioglia.
Che luce è questa, e qual nuova beltate?
Dicean tra lor; perch‘ abito si adorno
Dal mondo errante a quest ‘alto soggiorno
Non sali mai in tutta questa etate.
Ella contenta aver cangiato albergo,
Si paragona pur coi piu perfettiPetrarca.
Spring-time.Spring, bright prophet of God's eternal youth, herald forever eloquent of heaven's undying joy, has once more wrought its miracle of resurrection on the vineyards and olive-groves of Tuscany, and touched with gently-wakening fingers the myrtle and the orange in the gardens of Florence. The Apennines have put aside their snowy winding-sheet, and their untroubled faces salute with rosy gleams of promise the new day, while flowers smile upward to the serene sky amid the grass and grain fields, and fruit is swelling beneath the blossoms along the plains of Arno. ‘The Italian spring,’ writes Margaret, ‘is as good as Paradise. Days come of glorious sunshine and gently-flowing airs, that expand the heart and uplift the whole nature. The birds are twittering their first notes of love; the ground is enamelled with anemones, cowslips, and crocuses; every old wall and ruin puts on its festoon and garland; and the heavens stoop daily nearer, till the earth is folded in an embrace of fight, and her every pulse beats music:’  ‘This world is indeed a sad place, despite its sunshine, birds, and crocuses. But I never felt as happy as now, when I always find the glad eyes of my little boy to welcome me. I feel the tie between him and me so real and deep-rooted, that even death shall not part us. So sweet is this unimpassioned love; it knows no dark reactions, it does not idealize, and cannot be daunted by the faults of its object. Nothing but a child can take the worst bitterness out of life, and break the spell of loneliness. I shall not be alone in other worlds, whenever Eternity may call me.’ And now her face is turned homeward. ‘I am homesick,’ she had written years before, ‘but where is that home?’
Many motives drew Margaret to her native land: heart-weariness at the reaction in Europe; desire of publishing to best advantage the book whereby she hoped at once to do justice to great principles and brave men, and to earn bread for her dear ones and herself; and, above all, yearning to be again among her family and earliest associates. ‘I go back,’ she writes,
My heart is very tired,—my strength is low,—
My hands are full of blossoms plucked before,
Held dead within them till myself shall die.
prepared for difficulties; but it will be a consolation to be with my mother, brothers, sister, and old friends, and I find it imperatively necessary to be in the United States, for a while at least, to make such arrangements with the printers as may free me from immediate care. I did  think, at one time, of coming alone with Angelino, and then writing for Ossoli to come later, or returning to Italy; knowing that it will be painful for him to go, and that there he must have many lonely hours. But he is separated from his old employments and natural companions, while no career is open for him at present. Then, I would not take his child away for several months; for his heart is fixed upon him as fervently as mine. And, again, it would not only be very strange and sad to be so long without his love and care, but I should be continually solicitous about his welfare. Ossoli, indeed, cannot but feel solitary at first, and I am much more anxious about his happiness than my own. Still, he will have our boy, and the love of my family, especially of my mother, to cheer him, and quiet communings with nature give him pleasure so simple and profound, that I hope he will make a new life for himself, in our unknown country, till changes favor our return to his own. I trust, that we shall find the means to come together, and to remain together.Considerations of economy determined them, spite of many misgivings, to take passage in a merchantman from Leghorn. ‘I am suffering,’ she writes,
as never before, from the horrors of indecision. Happy the fowls of the air, who do not have to think so much about their arrangements! The barque Elizabeth will take us, and is said to be an uncommonly good vessel, nearly new, and well kept. We may be two months at sea, but to go by way of France would more than double the expense. Yet, now that I am on the point of deciding to come in her, people daily dissuade me, saying that I have no conception of what a voyage of sixty or seventy days will be in point of fatigue and suffering; that the  insecurity, compared with packet-ships or steamers, is great; that the cabin, being on deck, will be terribly exposed, in case of a gale, &c., &c. I am well aware of the proneness of volunteer counsellors to frighten and excite one, and have generally disregarded them. But this time I feel a trembling solicitude on account of my child, and am doubtful, harassed, almost ill.And again, under date of April 21, she says:
I had intended, if I went by way of France, to take the packet-ship “Argo,” from Havre; and I had requested Mrs.—— to procure and forward to me some of my effects left at Paris, in charge of Miss F——, when, taking up Galignani, my eye fell on these words: “Died, 4th of April, Miss F——;” and, turning the page, I read, The wreck of the “Argo,” —a somewhat singular combination! There were notices, also, of the loss of the fine English steamer Adelaide, and of the American packet John Skiddy. Safety is not to be secured, then, by the wisest foresight. I shall embark more composedly in our merchant-ship, praying fervently, indeed, that it may not be my lot to lose my boy at sea, either by unsolaced illness, or amid the howling waves; or, if so, that Ossoli, Angelo, and I may go together, and that the anguish may be brief.Their state-rooms were taken, their trunks packed, their preparations finished, they were just leaving Florence, when letters came, which, had they reached her a week earlier, would probably have induced them to remain in Italy. But Margaret had already by letter appointed a rendezvous for the scattered members of her family in July; and she would not break her engagements with the commander of the barque. It was destined that they were to sail,—to sail in the Elizabeth, to  sail then. And, even in the hour of parting, clouds, whose tops were golden in the sunshine, whose base was gloomy on the waters, beckoned them onward. ‘Beware of the sea,’ had been a singular prophecy, given to Ossoli when a boy, by a fortune-teller, and this was the first ship he had ever set his foot on. More than ordinary apprehensions of risk, too, hovered before Margaret. ‘I am absurdly fearful,’ she writes,
and various omens have combined to give me a dark feeling. I am become indeed a miserable coward, for the sake of Angelino. I fear heat and cold, fear the voyage, fear biting poverty. I hope I shall not be forced to be as brave for him, as I have been for myself, and that, if I succeed to rear him, he will be neither a weak nor a bad man. But I love him too much! In case of mishap, however, I shall perish with my husband and my child, and we may be transferred to some happier state.And again:
I feel perfectly willing to stay my threescore years and ten, if it be thought I need so much tuition from this planet; but it seems to me that my future upon earth will soon close. It may be terribly trying, but it will not be so very long, now. God will transplant the root, if he wills to rear it into fruit-bearing.And, finally:
I have a vague expectation of some crisis,—I know not what. But it has long seemed, that, in the year 1850, I should stand on a plateau in the ascent of life, where I should be allowed to pause for a while, and take more clear and commanding views than ever before. Yet my life proceeds as regularly as the fates of a Greek tragedy, and I can but accept the pages as they turn.These were her parting words:—
The voyage.2 The seventeenth of May, the day of sailing, came, and the Elizabeth lay waiting for her company. Yet, even then, dark presentiments so overshadowed Margaret, that she passed one anxious hour more in hesitation, before she could resolve to go on board. But Captain Hasty was so fine a model of the New England seaman, strong-minded, prompt, calm, decided, courteous; Mrs. Hasty was so refined, gentle, and hospitable; both had already formed so warm an attachment for the little family, in their few interviews at Florence and Leghorn; Celeste Paolini, a young Italian girl, who had engaged to render kindly services to Angelino, was so lady-like and pleasing; their only other fellow-passenger, Mr. Horace Sumner,  of Boston, was so obliging and agreeable a friend; and the good ship herself looked so trim, substantial, and cheery, that it seemed weak and wrong to turn back. They embarked; and, for the first few days, all went prosperously, till fear was forgotten. Soft breezes sweep them tranquilly over the smooth bosom of the Mediterranean; Angelino sits among his heaps of toys, or listens to the seraphine, or leans his head, with fondling hands upon the white goat, who is now to be his foster-parent, or in the captain's arms moves to and fro, gazing curiously at spars and rigging, or watches with delight the swelling canvass; while, under the constant stars, above the unresting sea, Margaret and Ossoli pace the deck of their small ocean-home, and think of storms left behind, —perhaps of coming tempests. But now Captain Hasty fell ill with fever, could hardly drag himself from his state-room to give necessary orders, and lay upon the bed or sofa, in fast-increased distress, though glad to bid Nino good-day, to kiss his cheek, and pat his hand. Still, the strong man grew weaker, till he could no longer draw from beneath the pillow his daily friend, the Bible, though his mind was yet clear to follow his wife's voice, as she read aloud the morning and evening chapter. But alas for the brave, stout seaman! alas for the young wife, on almost her first voyage! alas for crew! alas for company! alas for the friends of Margaret! The fever proved to be confluent small-pox, in the most malignant form. The good commander had received his release from earthly duty. The Elizabeth must lose her guardian. With calm confidence, he met his fate, and, at eight o'clock on Sunday morning, June 3d, he breathed his last. At midnight, the Elizabeth had anchored off Gibraltar; but the  authorities refused permission for any one to land, and directed that the burial should be made at sea. As the news spread through the port, the ships dropped their flags half-mast, and at sunset, towed by the boat of a neighboring frigate, the crew of the Elizabeth bore the body of their late chief, wrapped in the flag of his nation, to its rest in deep water. Golden twilight flooded the western sky, and shadows of high-piled clouds lay purple on the broad Atlantic. In that calm, summer sunset funeral, what eye foresaw the morning of horror, of which it was the sad forerunner? At Gibraltar, they were detained a week by adverse winds, but, on the 9th of June, set sail again. The second day after, Angelino sickened with the dreadful malady, and soon became so ill, that his life was despaired of. His eyes were closed, his head and face swollen out of shape, his body covered with eruption. Though inexperienced in the disease, the parents wisely treated their boy with cooling drinks, and wet applications to the skin; under their incessant care, the fever abated, and, to their unspeakable joy, he rapidly recovered. Sobered and saddened, they could again hope, and enjoy the beauty of the calm sky and sea. Once more Nino laughs, as he splashes in his morning bath, and playfully prolongs the meal, which the careful father has prepared with his own hand, or, if he has been angered, rests his head upon his mother's breast, while his palm is pressed against her cheek, as, bending down, she sings to him; once more, he sits among his toys, or fondles and plays with the white-haired goat, or walks up and down in the arms of the steward, who has a boy of just his age, at home, now waiting to embrace him; or among the sailors, with whom he is a universal favorite, prattles in baby dialect as he  tries to imitate their cry, to work the pumps, and pull the ropes. Ossoli and Sumner, meanwhile, exchange alternate lessons in Italian and English. And Margaret, among her papers, gives the last touches to her book on Italy, or with words of hope and love comforts like a mother the heart-broken widow. Slowly, yet peacefully, pass the long summer days, the mellow moonlit nights; slowly, and with even flight, the good Elizabeth, under gentle airs from the tropics, bears them safely onward. Four thousand miles of ocean lie behind; they are nearly home.
On Thursday, July 18th, at noon, the Elizabeth was off the Jersey coast, somewhere between Cape May and Barnegat; and, as the weather was thick, with a fresh breeze blowing from the east of south, the officer in command, desirous to secure a good offing, stood east-north-east. His purpose was, when daylight showed the highlands of Neversink, to take a pilot, and run before the wind past Sandy Hook. So confident, indeed, was he of safety, that he promised his passengers to land them early in the morning at New York. With this hope, their trunks were packed, the preparations made to greet their friends, the last good-night was spoken, and with grateful hearts Margaret and Ossoli put Nino  to rest, for the last time, as they thought, on ship-board, —for the last lime, as it was to be, on earth! By nine o'clock, the breeze rose to a gale, which every hour increased in violence: till at midnight it became a hurricane. Yet, as the Elizabeth was new and strong, and as the commander, trusting to an occasional cast of the lead, assured them that they were not nearing the Jersey coast,—which alone he dreaded,—the passengers remained in their state-rooms, and caught such uneasy sleep as the howling storm and tossing ship permitted. Utterly unconscious, they were, even then, amidst perils, whence only by promptest energy was it possible to escape. Though under close-reefed sails, their vessel was making way far more swiftly than any one on board had dreamed of; and for hours, with the combined force of currents and the tempest, had been driving headlong towards the sand-bars of Long Island. About four o'clock, on Friday morning, July 19th, she struck,—first draggingly, then hard and harder,—on Fire Island beach. The main and mizzen masts were at once cut away; but the heavy marble in her hold had broken through her bottom, and she bilged. Her bow held fast, her stern swung round, she careened inland, her broadside was bared to the shock of the billows, and the waves made a clear breach over her with every swell. The doom of the poor Elizabeth was sealed now, and no human power could save her. She lay at the mercy of the maddened ocean. At the first jar, the passengers, knowing but too well its fatal import, sprang from their berths. Then came the cry of ‘Cut away,’ followed by the crash of falling timbers, and the thunder of the seas, as they broke across the deck. In a moment more, the cabin skylight was  dashed in pieces by the breakers, and the spray, pouring down like a cataract, put out the lights, while the cabin door was wrenched from its fastenings, and the waves swept in and out. One scream, one only, was heard from Margaret's state-room; and Sumner and Mrs. Hasty, meeting in the cabin, clasped hands, with these few but touching words: ‘We must die.’ ‘Let us die calmly, then.’ ‘I hope so, Mrs. Hasty.’ It was in the gray dusk, and amid the awful tumult, that the companions in misfortune met. The side of the cabin to the leeward had already settled under water; and furniture, trunks, and fragments of the skylight were floating to and fro; while the inclined position of the floor made it difficult to stand; and every sea, as it broke over the bulwarks, splashed in through the open roof. The windward cabin-walls, however, still yielded partial shelter, and against it, seated side by side, half leaning backwards, with feet braced upon the long table, they awaited what next should come. At first, Nino, alarmed at the uproar, the darkness, and the rushing water, while shivering with the wet, cried passionately; but soon his mother, wrapping him in such garments as were at hand and folding him to her bosom, sang him to sleep. Celeste too was in an agony of terror, till Ossoli, with soothing words and a long and fervent prayer, restored her to self-control and trust. Then calmly they rested, side by side, exchanging kindly partings and sending messages to friends, if any should survive to be their bearer. Meanwhile, the boats having been swamped or carried away, and the carpenter's tools washed overboard, the crew had retreated to the top-gallant forecastle; but, as the passengers saw and heard nothing of them, they supposed that the officers and crew had deserted the  ship, and that they were left alone. Thus passed three hours. At length, about seven, as there were signs that the cabin would soon break up, and any death seemed preferable to that of being crushed among the ruins, Mrs. Hasty made her way to the door, and, looking out at intervals between the seas as they swept across the vessel amidships, saw some one standing by the foremast. His face was toward the shore. She screamed and beckoned, but her voice was lost amid the roar of the wind and breakers, and her gestures were unnoticed. Soon, however, Davis, the mate, through the door of the forecastle caught sight of her, and, at once comprehending the danger, summoned the men to go to the rescue. At first none dared to risk with him the perilous attempt; but, cool and resolute, he set forth by himself, and now holding to the bulwarks, now stooping as the waves combed over, he succeeded in reaching the cabin. Two sailors, emboldened by his example, followed. Preparations were instantly made to conduct the passengers to the forecastle, which, as being more strongly built and lying further up the sands, was the least exposed part of the ship. Mrs. Hasty volunteered to go the first. With one hand clasped by Davis, while with the other each grasped the rail, they started, a sailor moving close behind. But hardly had they taken three steps, when a sea broke loose her hold, and swept her into the hatchway. ‘Let me go,’ she cried, ‘your life is important to all on board.’ But cheerily, and with a smile,3 he answered, ‘Not quite yet;’ and, seizing in his teeth her long hair, as it floated past him, he caught with both  hands at some near support, and, aided by the seaman, set her once again upon her feet. A few moments more of struggle brought them safely through. In turn, each of the passengers was helped thus laboriously across the deck, though, as the broken rail and cordage had at one place fallen in the way, the passage was dangerous and difficult in the extreme. Angelino was borne in a canvas bag, slung round the neck of a sailor. Within the forecastle, which was comparatively dry and sheltered, they now seated themselves, and, wrapped in the loose overcoats of the seamen, regained some warmth. Three times more, however, the mate made his way to the cabin; once, to save her late husband's watch, for Mrs. Hasty; again for some doubloons, money-drafts, and rings in Margaret's desk; and, finally, to procure a bottle of wine and a drum of figs for their refreshment. It was after his last return, that Margaret said to Mrs. Hasty, ‘There still remains what, if I live, will be of more value to me than anything,’ referring, probably, to her manuscript on Italy; but it seemed too selfish to ask their brave preserver to run the risk again. There was opportunity now to learn their situation, and to discuss the chances of escape. At the distance of only a few hundred yards, appeared the shore,—a lonely waste of sand-hills, so far as could be seen through the spray and driving rain. But men had been early observed, gazing at the wreck, and, later, a wagon had been drawn upon the beach. There was no sign of a lifeboat, however, or of any attempt at rescue; and, about nine o'clock, it was determined that some one should try to land by swimming, and, if possible, get help Though it seemed almost sure death to trust one's self to the surf, a sailor, with a life-preserver, jumped over—  board, and, notwithstanding a current drifting him to leeward, was seen to reach the shore. A second, with the aid of a spar, followed in safety; and Sumner, encouraged by their success, sprang over also; but, either struck by some piece of the wreck, or unable to combat with the waves, he sank. Another hour or more passed by; but though persons were busy gathering into carts whatever spoil was stranded, no life-boat yet appeared; and, after much deliberation, the plan was proposed,— and, as it was then understood, agreed to,—that the passengers should attempt to land, each seated upon a plank, and grasping handles of rope, while a sailor swam behind. Here, too, Mrs. Hasty was the first to venture, under the guard of Davis. Once and again, during their passage, the plank was rolled wholly over, and once and again was righted, with its bearer, by the dauntless steersman; and when, at length, tossed by the surf upon the sands, the half-drowned woman still holding, as in a death-struggle, to the ropes, was about to be swept back by the undertow, he caught her in his arms, and, with the assistance of a bystander, placed her high upon the beach. Thus twice in one day had he perilled his own life to save that of the widow of his captain, and even over that dismal tragedy his devotedness casts one gleam of light. Now came Margaret's turn. But she steadily refused to be separated from Ossoli and Angelo. On a raft with them, she would have boldly encountered the surf, but alone she would not go. Probably, she had appeared to assent to the plan for escaping upon planks, with the view of inducing Mrs. Hasty to trust herself to the care of the best man on board; very possibly, also, she had never learned the result of their attempt, as, seated  within the forecastle, she could not see the beach. She knew, too, that if a life-boat could be sent, Davis was one who would neglect no effort to expedite its coming While she was yet declining all persuasions, word was given from the deck, that the life-boat had finally appeared. For a moment, the news lighted up again the flickering fire of hope. They might yet be saved,—be saved together! Alas! to the experienced eyes of the sailors it too soon became evident that there was no attempt to launch or man her. The last chance of aid from shore, then, was gone utterly. They must rely on their own strength, or perish. And if ever they were to escape, the time had come; for, at noon, the storm had somewhat lulled; but already the tide had turned, and it was plain that the wreck could not hold together through another flood. In this emergency, the commanding officer, who until now had remained at his post, once more appealed to Margaret to try to escape,— urging that the ship would inevitably break up soon; that it was mere suicide to remain longer; that he did not feel free to sacrifice the lives of the crew, or to throw away his own; finally, that he would himself take Angelo, and that sailors should go with Celeste, Ossoli, and herself. But, as before, Margaret decisively declared that she would not be parted from her husband or her child. The order was then given to ‘save themselves,’ and all but four of the crew jumped over, several of whom, together with the commander, reached shore alive, though severely bruised and wounded by the drifting fragments. There is a sad consolation in believing that, if Margaret judged it to be impossible that the three should escape, she in all probability was right. It required a most rare combination of courage, promptness,  and persistency, to do what Davis had done for Mrs. Hasty. We may not conjecture the crowd of thoughts which influenced the lovers, the parents, in this awful crisis; but doubtless one wish was ever uppermost,— that, God willing, the last hour might come for all, if it must come for one. It was now past three o'clock, and as, with the rising tide, the gale swelled once more to its former violence, the remnants of the barque fast yielded to the resistless waves. The cabin went by the board, the after-parts broke up, and the stern settled out of sight. Soon, too, the forecastle was filled with water, and the helpless little band were driven to the deck, where they clustered round the foremast. Presently, even this fail support was loosened from the hull, and rose and fell with every billow. It was plain to all that the final moment drew swiftly nigh. Of the four seamen who still stood by the passengers, three were as efficient as any among the crew of the Elizabeth. These were the steward, carpenter, and cook. The fourth was an old sailor, who, broken down by hardships and sickness, was going home to die. These men were once again persuading Margaret, Ossoli and Celeste to try the planks, which they held ready in the lee of the ship, and the steward, by whom Nino was so much beloved, had just taken the little fellow in his arms, with the pledge that he would save him or die, when a sea struck the forecastle, and the foremast fell, carrying with it the deck, and all upon it. The steward and Angelino were washed upon the beach, both dead, though warm, some twenty minutes after. The cook and carpenter were thrown far upon the foremast, and saved themselves by swimming. Celeste and Ossoli caught for a moment by the rigging,  but the next wave swallowed them up. Margaret sank at once. When last seen, she had been seated at the foot of the foremast, still clad in her white nightdress, with her hair fallen loose upon her shoulders. It was over,—that twelve hours communion, face to face, with Death! It was over! and the prayer was granted, ‘that Ossoli, Angelo, and I, may go together, and that the anguish may be brief!’ A passage from the journal of a friend of Margaret, whom the news of the wreck drew at once to the scene, shall close this mournful story:—
There are blind ways provided, the foredone
Heart-weary player in this pageant world
Drops out by, letting the main masque defile
By the conspicuous portal:—I am through,
The hull of the Elizabeth, with the foremast still bound to it by cordage, lies so near the shore, that it seems as if a dozen oar-strokes would carry a boat alongside. And as one looks at it glittering in the sunshine, and rocking gently in the swell, it is hard to feel reconciled to our loss. Seven resolute men might have saved every soul on board. I know how different was the prospect on that awful morning, when the most violent gale that had visited our coast for years, drove the billows up to the very foot of the sand-hills, and when the sea in foaming torrents swept across the beach into the bay behind. Yet I cannot but reluctantly declare my judgment, that this terrible tragedy is to be attributed, so far as human agency is looked at, to our wretched system, or no-system, of life-boats. The life-boat at Fire Island light-house, three miles distant only, was not brought to the beach till between twelve and one o'clock, more than eight hours after the Elizabeth was stranded, and more than six hours after the wreck could easily have been seen. When the life-boat did finally  come, the beachmen could not be persuaded to launch or man her. And even the mortar, by which a rope could and should have been thrown on board, was not once fired. A single lesson like this might certainly suffice to teach the government, insurance companies, and humane societies, the urgent need, that to every life-boat should be attached organized Crews, stimulated to do their work faithfully, by ample pay for actual service, generous salvage-fees for cargoes and persons, and a pension to surviving friends where life is lost. No trace has yet been found of Margaret's manuscript on Italy, though the denials of the wreckers as to having seen it, are not in the least to be depended on. For, greedy after richer spoil, they might well have overlooked a mass of written paper; and, even had they kept it, they would be slow to give up what would so clearly prove their participation in the heartless robbery, that is now exciting such universal horror and indignation. Possibly it was washed away before reaching the shore, as several of the trunks, it is said, were open and empty, when thrown upon the beach. But it is sad to think, that very possibly the brutal hands of pirates may have tossed to the winds, or scattered on the sands, pages so rich with experience and life. The only papers of value saved, were the love-letters of Margaret and Ossoli.4 It is a touching coincidence, that the only one of Margaret's treasures which reached the shore, was the lifeless form of Angelino. When the body, stripped of every rag by the waves, was rescued from the surf, a sailor took it reverently in his arms, and, wrapping it in  his neckcloth, bore it to the nearest house. There when washed, and dressed in a child's frock, found in Margaret's trunk, it was laid upon a bed; and as the rescued seamen gathered round their late playfellow and pet, there were few dry eyes in the circle. Several of them mourned for Nino, as if he had been their own; and even the callous wreckers were softened, for the moment, by a sight so full of pathetic beauty. The next day, borne upon their shoulders in a chest, which one of the sailors gave for a coffin, it was buried in a hollow among the sand heaps. As I stood beside the lonely little mound, it seemed that never was seen a more affecting type of orphanage. Around, wiry and stiff, were scanty spires of beach-grass; near by, dwarf-cedars, blown flat by wintry winds, stood like grim guardians; only at the grave-head a stunted wild-rose,. wilted and scraggy, was struggling for existence. Thoughts came of the desolate childhood of many a little one in this hard world; and there was joy in the assurance, that Angelo was neither motherless nor fatherless, and that Margaret and her husband were not childless in that New World, which so suddenly they had entered together. To-morrow, Margaret's mother, sister, and brothers will remove Nino's body to New England.Was this, then, thy welcome home? A howling hurricane, the pitiless sea, wreck on a sand-bar, an idle life-boat, beach-pirates, and not one friend! In those twelve hours of agony, did the last scene appear but as the fitting close for a life of storms, where no safe haven was ever in reach; where thy richest treasures were so often stranded; where even the dearest and  nearest seemed always too far off, or just too late, to help. Ah, no! not so. The clouds were gloomy on the waters, truly; but their tops were golden in the sun. It was in the Father's House that welcome awaited thee.
Glory to God! to God! he saith, Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications.
Knowledge by suffering entereth,
And Life is perfected by Death
Woman in American societyPrice $1.50.
I am so pleased with what you have written, not only as a specimen of admirable English composition, but for its rare good sense, its excellent and much needed advice, its delicate satire, its clear perception of what belongs to true womanhood, and its vigorous treatment of the various topics described from ‘The School Girl’ to ‘The Queen of Home,’ that I cannot withhold an expression of my respect for your talents and high appreciation of the service you have rendered your sex.Extract from a letter by Wm. Lloyd Garrison.
I think them excellent, combining sound sense with feminine delicacy of observation. Extract front a letter from Geo. S. Hillard.
Here is a powerful plea for a higher and more complete education for women, for an education which shall develop her powers of mind and of body, more justly and more thoroughly, and fit her for taking in society the high position for which God has created her. This book ought to be in the hands of every girl who desires to live a healthy, happy life, and of every mother who would have her daughter prepared for such a life. G. B. E. in Boston Transcript.
This is a thoroughly good book,—good in style, good in thought, good in its practical purpose, its shrewd sense, its exquisite humor, its delicate sarcasm, its honesty, and its earnestness. Every one of its twenty essays touches some social failing and hints some useful improvement.The criticism, sharp and frank as it is, is never malicious or cynical. There is no pedantry, though the author is evidently expert in lore both ancient and modern; no sickly sentiment, and, what is rare in a lady's book, no poetical quotation. The longest chapter in the book, and, as a piece of description, the finest, is the nineteenth, on ‘Grandmothers' Houses.’ This is painting from the life, and with a minuteness and finish worthy of the most accomplished of the Dutch or Flemish masters. Whittier's ‘Snow-Bound’ is not more complete in its kind.From the Christian Register.
It consists of twenty short, sensible, witty, and vigorous essays, directed chiefly against the follies of the sex. From the Boston Globe.
She writes so keenly at times as to suggest comparison with the author of the ‘Saturday Review’ papers on woman; with this marked difference, that, while the criticisms — of the latter are bitter and unsparing, those of Mrs. Woolson, however sincere, evince always the generous purpose which underlies them, and show the author's appreciation of woman's real worth and the opportunities within her reach. From the Boston Journal.
There is that in it that needed to be said, and had not been said before, in any writing that had come under our observation, so well as she has expressed it here. From the Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers, Roberts Brothers, Boston.
The life and letters of Madame Swetchine.
The writings of Madame Swetchine.Edited by Count De Falloux. 1 vol. 16mo. Price $1.25.
by Lucy Larcom.A well-written history of an excellent and gifted woman, like the ‘Life and Letters of Madame Swetchine,’ by Count de Falloux, will naturally meet with a welcome among people of the truest culture. Madame Swetchine was not a woman who courted publicity; but the thread of her life was so interwoven with the political and religious movements of her time, it was impossible for her to escape notice. And it brightens that dark period of strife between France and Russia, with which the present century opened, to follow the life-track of this Russian lady, who seemed to have been equally at home in both countries. She was intimately acquainted with the noblest men and women of that remarkable period, and there is not one of them upon whom her friendship does not cast a beautiful glow. She was one of those rare beings who seem to have been created to draw out what is best in others, by the power of sympathy and self-forgetfulness. She was a woman of uncommon intellect, and of wide reading; and every thing she read was brought to the standard of a judgment remarkably clear and penetrative; indeed, her conversion to the Roman Catholic faith seems to have been mostly a matter of the head,—a choice between the Greek and the Roman ecelesiasticism. Long before her decision was made, her life shows her to have been a humble and earnest Christian; and, as such, as one whose sympathies took wing higher and wider than the opinions in which she had caged herself, her history has a rare value. One wonders at the amount of good accomplished by her, always a weak invalid. In order to understand how she lived, and what she did, the book must be read through; but some extracts might give a hint of it:—
She rarely gave what is called advice,—an absolute solution of a given problem: her humility made her shrink from direct responsibilities. She did not lecture you. She did not set herself up as a model or guide. She did not say. “Walk thus;” but sweetly. “Let us walk together;” and so, without making the slightest pretensions, she often guided those she seemed to follow. Young and old acknowledged her sway. She never evoked a sentiment of rivalry, because no one ever detected in her a temptation to win admiration at the expense of others, or to eclipse any person whatever. Her disinterestedness won pardon fur her superiority. Sick and erring hearts came and revealed themselves to Madame Swetchine In all sincerity; and she shed upon them, sweetly and gradually, light and truth and life. In her turn she drew from this intimate intercourse, added to her own exquisite penetration, a knowledge of the human heart which amounted almost to divination. She knew the science of the soul as physicians know that of the body. Her charity was not a careless and mechanical practice. She consecrated to it all her strength and all her skill. Almsgiving was not, with her, the mere fulfilment of a duty. She liked to give pleasure besides doing good, and her heart always added something to what her hand gave.Madame Swetchine lived a little beyond the boundaries of threescore and ten It is only ten years since she died. Heaven does not ask to what communion she belonged, neither will posterity. The memory of her saintliness is a possession to the church universal, in the present and in the future. Such a record as here be an inspiration to all who read; such an example, the most imperative ‘Ge thou and do likewise’ Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, postpaid, by the publisher. Roberts Brothers, Boston,  Messrs. Robert Brothers' Publications.
Lives of Exemplary women.Messrs. Roberts' Bros. are publishing a series of Lives of Exemplary Women, uniform in size and price. The first volume is Memoirs and correspondence of Madame Recamier. Translated from the French and edited by Miss Luyster. With a fine portrait of Madame Recamier. Seventh edition. One handsome 12mo volume. Price $1. 50. ‘Her own contributions to it are exceedingly brief, but her individuality permeate the whole work and gives it unity. She was undoubtedly a woman of genius; but it was in her life alone, in her noble friendships, in her unselfish devotion to all bound to her by any ties, that gave her genius expression, and it is only fair, therefore, that she should attain immortality not through the labor of her own spirit, but rather through the praise of those by whom she was so well beloved.’—Virginia Vaughan in ‘The Leader.’ The second volume is life and letters of Madame Swetchine. By Count De Falloux. Translated by Miss Preston. Seventh edition In one volume. 12mo. Price $1. 50.
The third volume is the friendships of women. By Rev. W. R. Alger. Seventh edition. One volume, 12mo. Price $1. 50.
The Life and Letters of Madame Swetchine, is a companion volume to Mme. Recamier, and both works give us two phases of contemporary Paris life, and two characters that with some accidental resemblances, present strong points of contrast.The social influence both women exercised was good, but when we compare the two, Madame Recamier's sinks to a much lower level. She (Madame It. ) was gentle and kind. ready to sacrifice herself to any extent to advance the material influence of her friends, but she was essentially a worldly woman; whereas Madame Swetchine was ‘in the world but not of it. ’ She exerted an immense spiritual as well as intellectual influence on all who approached her, and raised her friends to her own level. Madame Recamier made her associates pleased with themselves, whilst Madame Swetchine taught hers to forget themselves. As a biography, the life of Madame Swetchine is more satisfactory and much better written; that of Madame Recamier is fuller of personal anecdote respecting distinguished person, and as a book of reference is more valuable. We frequently meet the same people in each and in this respect they serve to illustrate and explain each other.
The fourth volume is saint Beuve's portraits of celebrated women. Madame De Sevinge Madame De La Fayette. Madame De Souza. Madame Roland. Madame Dr Stael. Madame De Duras. Madame De Remusat. Madame De Krudener. Madame Guizot. To match ‘Madame Recamier,’ ‘Madame Swetchine,’ and ‘The Friendships of Women.’ In one volume, 12mo. Price 8 1. 50. Mailed. postpaid, to at address, on receipt of the price by the Publishers  Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications.
Mr. Alger is among our most diligent students and earnest thinkers; and this volume will add to the reputation he has fairly earned as the occupant of quite a prominent place in American literature. He deserves all the popularity he has won; for, always thoughtful sincere, and excellent of purpose with his pen, he allows no success to seduce him into any content with what he has already accomplished. His ‘ Friendships of Women,’ for many reasons, will have a wide circle of readers, and cannot fail to increase our sense of the worth of human nature, as it enthusiastically delineates some of its most elevated manfestations. By telling what woman has been, he tells what woman may be; intellectually as well as morally, in the beauty of her mind as well as in the affections of her heart, and the loveliness of her person.Salem Gazette.
Miss Preston's translations. Memoirs of Madame Desbordes—Valmore.By the late C. A. Sainte-Beuve. With a Selection from her Poems. One volume. 16mo. Price $1.50.
There was something feminine in Sainte-Beuve's genius, which made him angularly successful in penetrating into the souls of women,--a combination of instinct and insight which few women, perhaps, have shown in the tolerant interptetation of each other's souls. . . . He called her ‘the most courageous, tender, and compassionate of feminine souls, she whom I do not hesitate to call the Mater Dolorosa of poetry.’ Miss Preston, the translator of the ‘Memoirs,’ is already well known for her version of ‘Portraits de Femmes;’ and this second attempt to introduce Sainte-Beuve to a wide circle of American readers promises to be even more popular than the first. From the Globe.
Sainte-Beuve speaks of Madame Valmore as the most courageous, tender, and compassionate of female souls,—whom he does not hesitate to call the Mater Dolorosa of poetry. Early left an orphan by the death of her mother, she sought a livelihood is an actress. But at twenty, she says, her private griefs compelled her to give up singing, ‘for the sound of my own voice made me weep.’ So music turned to poetry within her. Possessed of an exquisite tenderness of spirit, her heart was fitted for the extremes of delight and sadness. As Michelet remarked, she alone among them had the ‘gift of tears.’ Deeply interesting as her life is, there was, of course, something morbid about it,—something which this sketchy Memoir does not explain. Such lives cannot be understood without first under— standing intimately the profound unrest and turbulence of French society in those revolutionary times during which her lot was cast. There are just enough points of resemblance between her career and that of the Cary sisters to give interest and instructiveness to the contrasts between them. The translator, Miss Preston has again shown the fine skill which she has for such work. From the Cicago Advance.
This volume is but another example of Miss Preston's remarkable ability as a translator. She has already done work in this department of literary effort which entitles her to the cordial thanks of all who appreciate the value of faithful and spirited translations. . . . The work now before us is the record of a life which was rich in qualities appealing to our deepest sympathies. It was an unselfish life, whose tenderness and beauty shone through all vicissitudes, and brightened every dark hour. The story of Madame Desbordes-Valmore is but another illustration of gentleness patiently enduring tile hardest shocks of privation and suffering; of nobility of nature asserting itself above the trials of poverty and physical pain . . . . Of the manner in which tills beautiful character has been presented, we cannot speak with too high praise. It is impossible not to recognize the finest qualities of mind and heart in the entire work. Fulness and delicacy of appreciation an united with the finest critical perception. It is a truly admirable biography, and could only have proceteded from a high-minded and rarely gifted man. From Church and State.Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers, Roberts Brothers, Boston.  Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications
Miss Preston's translations. Portraits of celebrated women.From the French of C. A. Sainte-Beuve. One volume. 16mo. Price $1. 50.
A book we can cordially recommend to all, but especially to our lady readers. Among other sketches with equal truth and skill are Madame de Stael, Lafayette, Ruland, and Guizot. We have all heard of Madame de Stael and Madame Ruland; but few know much of Madame Lafayette, and comparatively little is known of Madame Guizot, and others in the list, who so well deserve to be known, Miss . Preston has shown good judgment in her selection from the Portraits de Femmes. Her readers will thank her for an introduction to women whose distinguished abilities and virtues, as well as generous culture, make their acquaintance as profitable as it is pleasant; and also for the good words with which she prefaces her introduction. From the Universalist Quarterly Review.
M. Sainte-Beuve has rare insight into the female character, which is partly intellectual and partly sympathetic. His appreciation of what is truly feminine is very hearty, and his sensibility is stirred whenever he stands face to face with a true and noble womanhood; and yet he never loses his critical self-praise through admiration, nor fails to recognize and esteem the strength and active heroism which he deems the proper masculine qualities. He has his strong likes and dislikes; hut he sees clearly even when his heart is throbbing with strong emotion, and his sense of justice keeps all his impulses under control when he is at work upon his canvas. With an ability that is rarely equalled, with a taste that instinctively seizes what is fit, and rejects all that is inappropriate, and with a style that combines accuracy, vigor, and an affluent richness, he gives us in these Biographical Essays a volume that deserves a wide circulation, and which will be turned to again and again by thoughtful and cultivated readers. The translator has done her work well, and the publishers have withheld nothing which they could contribute to make an attractive book. From the Dover Morning Star.
A large number of the essays of Sainte-Beuve deal with the writings, lives, and characters of the most remarkable women of his country, with many of whom he has himself enjoyed intimate acquaintance, and of all of whom he has been a keen and devoted student, not less generous in his appreciation than capable in his discriminating insight. Some years ago he collected a volume of these papers and published it, under the title of ‘Portraits of Celebrated Women.’ They are among the best of his writings in those fine qualities of knowledge, sentiment, and expression, which have secured for him so wide and solid a reputation. Nine of the choicest of these portraits have been carefully transference into happy English by Miss Harriet W. Preston, and set before the American public in a handsome form by the house of Messrs. Roberts Brothers. We were already indebted to this house for the ‘Memoirs and Correspondence of Madame Reclamier,’ and the ‘Life and Letters of Madame Swetchine,’ two of the most charming, instructive, and exemplary works in modern literature. They have largely added to our obligation by the present work; for no cultivated and aspiring person can read it without delight and edification. Sainte-Beuve has done his work with all the strength and tact and grace of his refined genius. Miss Preston has accomplished her difficult task with uncommon skill, with pervading accuracy and frequent felicity. The publishers have put the book in our hands in a shape at once attractive, convenient, and inexpensive. It only remains for the favored reader to do his part, by perusing the volume with the docile and loving attention due to its costly and fascinating contents. Rev. W. R. Alger, in the Liberal Christian.Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers, Roberts Brothers, Boston  Messrs. Roberts Brothers Publications.
The Christian in the world.Price $. 500. Contents: The Statement; The Method; Principles; The Christian in Prayer; The Christian in his Recreations; The Christian in his Business.
It will be remembered that by the will of the late Hon. Richard Fletcher a fund was bequeathed to Dartmouth College, from the proceeds of which should be offered biennially a prize of $500 for the best essay on the importance of holy living on the part of Christian professors, and to the author of this admirably written work has the prize been awarded. This earnest, practical appeal for a higher standard of Christian living comes fresh from the heart, and we think must reach the heart and bring forth fruit in the lives of those who read it. In its wide application it comes to the Christian in his business and social relations, his daily duties and recreations, telling him how in all these varied relations he can be a ‘Christian in the World,’ and a blessing to his race. From the Boston Cultivator.
But the characteristic of the work, one which will attract to it a class of intelligent, spiritual-minded Christians, the unorganized fraternity of the inner and the outer life, is its lofty, uncompromising, exhilarating idealism. It exhibits the perfect man in Christ, and to that picture it points with the calm earnestness of conviction, though with the humility and sympathy begotten by the consciousness of sin and the remembrance of divers stumblings in the way of life. From the Christian Era.
Mr. Faunce is a clear and forcible writer, whose name is familiar to readers of the Baptist press, and in this essay he has most powerfully and practically developed his subject. He first impresses the practicability and positiveness of Christian duty, demanded alike from Christians and busy men in the world. The first five chapters are devoted to the Statement, Method, and Principles involved, devoting the remaining chapters to the duty of the Christian in Prayer, in his Recreations, and finally in his Business. The full, rich, practical suggestions contained in this essay, the earnest spirit which inspired it, and withal its pleasant, flowing style, render it one of the most desirable of books on kindred topics, and we bespeak for it at least a place in every Christian library. From the Syracuse Journal.Sold everywhere by all Booksellers. Failed, postpaid, by the Publishers, Roberts Brothers, Boston.