In the spring of 1833, the family removed from Cambridge to Groton. Margaret was at this time much occupied in the tuition of the younger children. In 1835, she made the acquaintance of Miss Martineau, then travelling in America. Margaret had in this year a severe illness, from which it was feared that she could not recover. In October, her father died of cholera. “This death,” says Mrs. Howe, “besides the sorrow and perplexity which followed it, brought to Margaret a disappointment which seemed to her to bar the fulfilment of her highest hopes.” It had been planned that she should visit Europe, making the voyage in the company of Miss Martineau and the Farrars. It now seemed to her a duty to remain with her mother, and “not to encroach upon the fund necessary for the education of her brothers and sisters.” Her undeniable egotism only throws this act of self-sacrifice into higher relief.
In the autumn of 1836, she left Groton, to take a position in Mr. Alcott’s school, in Boston, at the same time teaching private classes. She worked hard this winter, giving instruction in German, Italian, Latin, and French, and reading with her pupils such books as ‘Faust’ and the ‘Divina Commedia.’ In the spring of 1837, she went to teach in the Greene Street school, Providence, a salary of $1,000 per annum being offered her. She remained there two years, doing valuable work, which added to her reputation; but Mr. Greeley, in his autobiography, states that she was not remunerated for her services.
In 1839, the Fuller family left Groton for Jamaica Plain, and in November of the same year returned to Cambridge. In this year was published Margaret’s translation of Eckerman’s ‘Conversations with Goethe.’ In 1840, she became the editor of The Dial, which she managed for two years, receiving $200 the first year, after which her salary was discontinued on account of the lack of funds. She contributed to this periodical, besides various critical papers, the article on _The Great Lawsuit: Man versus Men, Woman versus Women_, which was afterwards expanded into her WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
It was in the autumn of 1839 that Margaret began her famous Boston conversations, with a class of twenty-five. These classes were renewed in November of each year until 1844.
In 1841, she translated the ‘Letters of Gunderode and Bettine,’ but their publication does not appear to have been completed. In 1843, a trip to Lake Superior furnished her with material for her _Summer on the Lakes_, originally published in The Dial. A general impression exists that Miss Fuller connected herself with the Brook Farm experiment. It is an error; she was a visitor, not a resident, at Brook Farm.
In 1844, Margaret went to New York, to live with the Greeleys at Turtle Bay, becoming a constant contributor to the New York Tribune. In this year she published WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, and the next, collected her _Papers on Art and Literature_ in a volume.
On the 1st of August, 1846, Margaret Fuller sailed for Europe, in the company of her friends Mr. and Mrs. Marcus Spring, of Eagleswood, New Jersey. She went first to England, visited the Lake country, meeting Wordsworth and renewing her acquaintance with Harriet Martineau, travelled in Scotland, making the ascent of Ben Lomond with but one companion, and without a guide, an imprudence which cost her a night of dangerous exposure; returned to London, where she met Joanna Baillie, the Carlyles, and Mazzini; and went thence to Paris. There she saw George Sand, Chopin, and Rachel. She proceeded to Lyons, to Avignon, “where she waded through the snow to visit the tomb of Laura,” and to Marseilles, whence she sailed for Genoa, going next to Naples and to Rome. It was during this first stay in Rome, in the spring of 1847, that she became acquainted with the Marquis Ossoli, an officer of the Civic Guard. She continued her travels, visiting Florence, Ravenna, Venice, Milan, the Italian Lakes, and Switzerland. She returned to Rome in October, 1847. In December she was married to Ossoli; but for reasons involving the security of his paternal inheritance, it was agreed that the marriage should be a secret. In the following May, Margaret left Rome for the summer, passing a month at Aquila, and the rest of the time, until November, at Rieti, where it was possible for her husband to visit her occasionally. In September, 1848, their son, “Angiolino,” was born. In November, Margaret found it necessary to go to Rome, “to be near her husband, and also in order to be able to carry on the literary work upon which depended not only her own support, but also that of her child.” The little Angelo was left in the care of his Italian nurse. His mother at first anticipated an absence of a month only. She indeed returned to Rieti for a week in December, but “circumstances were too strong for her, and she was forced to remain three months in Rome without seeing him,” lying awake at night, studying to end this cruel separation. She was again in Rieti in March, and in April returned to Rome. And now began the siege of Rome by the French, and the mother, shut up in the city, saw her child no more until the summer.
Margaret took charge of one of the hospitals during the siege. To the writer, this period appears the noblest of her life. The formation of the strongest human ties had immeasurably deepened and softened her nature. She moved among the wounded and dying soldiers like the “Court Lady” of Mrs. Browning’s poem. She learned all the horror of wounds and death. She insisted on going with Ossoli to his post on the night when an attack was expected in that quarter; and meeting at the Angelus, they passed together to the supposed danger as to a religious service. During the days of suspense, Margaret made her secret known to her friends in Rome. As soon as the siege was ended, the father and mother hastened to Rieti, to find their child neglected and almost dying. They nursed him back to life and health, and the three passed together one happy winter in Florence, clouded only by pecuniary anxieties--for Ossoli had, by his patriotism, lost all. Margaret’s literary work at this time was a _History of the Revolution in Italy_, which perished with her.
Margaret, Ossoli, and the little Angelo sailed for America on May 17, 1850, in the barque Elizabeth, Captain Hasty. On the voyage the captain died of small-pox; Angelo took the disease, but recovered. On the morning of July 19th, the Elizabeth was wrecked in a sudden storm, striking on Fire Island beach. The sea never gave back Margaret and Ossoli. The baby Angelo was washed ashore, and lies buried at Mt. Auburn.
Margaret’s works, collected after her death, are in four volumes: WOMAN IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY; _Art, Literature, and the Drama_; _Abroad and at Home_, and _Life Without and Life Within_.
A remarkable estimate of Margaret, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, published, among other extracts from his papers, by his son, has lately attracted much attention. The testimony of Hawthorne as to Margaret’s Italian life, of which he had no personal knowledge, has little value. But the conclusions of so keen a mind as to her character cannot be so easily dismissed; and this passage has been included among our extracts, that both sides of the shield may be seen. Certain of Hawthorne’s expressions go far to confirm the popular belief that Margaret’s character, as he saw it, furnished him with the hint or starting-point for his creation of Zenobia in ‘The Blithedale Romance.’
Lowell, in his stinging lines on Miranda, in ‘A Fable for Critics,’ speaks of her, “I-turn-the-crank-of-the-universe air,” and pronounces that “the whole of her being’s a capital I.” She is too often remembered thus, and only thus. Let us also picture her ministering in that “house of misery” where,--to quote lines written of another famous woman,--
“Slow, as in a dream of bliss, The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls.”
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Her early training.]
[Sidenote: Premature development.]
[Sidenote: Spectral illusions.]
[Sidenote: Somnambulism.]
My father instructed me himself. The effect of this was so far good that, not passing through the hands of many ignorant and weak persons, as so many do at preparatory schools, I was put at once under discipline of considerable severity, and, at the same time, had a more than ordinarily high standard presented to me. My father was a man of business, even in literature; he had been a high scholar at college, and was warmly attached to all he had learned there, both from the pleasure he had derived in the exercise of his faculties and the associated memories of success and good repute. He was, beside, well read in French literature, and in English, a Queen Anne’s man. He hoped to make me the heir of all he knew, and of as much more as the income of his profession enabled him to give me means of acquiring. At the very beginning, he made one great mistake, more common, it is to be hoped, in the last generation, than the warning of physiologists will permit it to be with the next. He thought to gain time by bringing forward the intellect as early as possible. Thus, I had tasks given me, as many and various as the hours would allow, and on subjects beyond my age; with the additional disadvantage of reciting to him in the evening, after he returned from his office. As he was subject to many interruptions, I was often kept up till very late; and as he was a severe teacher, both from his habits of mind and his ambition for me, my feelings were kept on the stretch till the recitations were over. Thus, frequently I was sent to bed several hours too late, with nerves unnaturally stimulated. The consequence was a premature development of the brain, that made me a “youthful prodigy” by day, and by night a victim of spectral illusions, nightmare, and somnambulism, which, at the time, prevented the harmonious development of my bodily powers and checked my growth, while, later, they induced continual headache, weakness, and nervous affections of all kinds. As these again reacted on the brain, giving undue force to every thought and every feeling, there was finally produced a state of being both too active and too intense, which wasted my constitution.... No one understood this subject of health then. No one knew why this child, already kept up so late, was still unwilling to retire. My aunts cried out upon the “spoiled child, the most unreasonable child that ever was--if brother could but open his eyes to see it--who was never willing to go to bed.” They did not know that, so soon as the light was taken away, she seemed to see colossal faces advancing slowly towards her, the eyes dilating, and each feature swelling loathsomely as they come, till at last, when they were about to close upon her, she started up with a shriek which drove them away, but only to return when she lay down again.... No wonder the child arose and walked in her sleep, moaning all over the house, till once, when they heard her, and came and waked her, and she told what she had dreamed, her father sharply bid her “leave off thinking of such nonsense, or she would be crazy,” never knowing that he was himself the cause of all these horrors of the night.