_Florence, Dec._ 12, 1840.

DEAR M. AND R.: * * * Your letter, dear R, was written in your n.o.blest and most womanly spirit. I thank you warmly for your sympathy about my little boy. What he is to me, even you can hardly dream; you that have three, in whom the natural thirst of the heart was earlier satisfied, can scarcely know what my one ewe-lamb is to me. That he may live, that I may find bread for him, that I may not spoil him by overweening love, that I may grow daily better for his sake, are the ever-recurring thoughts,--say prayers,--that give their hue to all the current of my life.

But, in answer to what you say, that it is still better to give the world a living soul than a portion of my life in a printed book, it is true; and yet, of my book I could know whether it would be of some worth or not; of my child, I must wait to see what his worth will be.

I play with him, my ever-growing mystery! but from the solemnity of the thoughts he brings is refuge only in G.o.d. Was I worthy to be parent of a soul, with its eternal, immense capacity for weal and woe?

"G.o.d be merciful to me a sinner!" comes so naturally to a mother's heart!

What you say about the Peace way is deeply true; if any one see clearly how to work in that way, let him, in G.o.d's name! Only, if he abstain from fighting against giant wrongs, let him be sure he is really and ardently at work undermining them, or, better still, sustaining the rights that are to supplant them. Meanwhile, I am not sure that I can keep my hands free from blood. Cobden is good; but if he had stood in Kossuth's place, would he not have drawn his sword against the Austrian? You, could you let a Croat insult your wife, carry off your son to be an Austrian serf, and leave your daughter bleeding in the dust? Yet it is true that while Moses slew the Egyptian, Christ stood still to be spit upon; and it is true that death to man could do him no harm. You have the truth, you have the right, but could you act up to it in all circ.u.mstances? Stifled under the Roman priesthood, would you not have thrown it off with all your force? Would you have waited unknown centuries, hoping for the moment when you could see another method?

Yet the agonies of that baptism of blood I feel, O how deeply! in the golden June days of Rome. Consistent no way, I felt I should have shrunk back,--I could not have had it shed. Christ did not have to see his dear ones pa.s.s the dark river; he could go alone, however, in prophetic spirit. No doubt he foresaw the crusades.

In answer to what you say of ----, I wish the little effort I made for him had been wiselier applied. Yet these are not the things one regrets. It does not do to calculate too closely with the affectionate human impulse. We must be content to make many mistakes, or we should move too slowly to help our brothers much.

TO HER BROTHER, R.

_Florence, Jan._ 8, 1850.

My Dear R.: * * * * The way in which you speak of my marriage is such as I expected from you. Now that we have once exchanged words on these important changes in our lives, it matters little to write letters, so much has happened, and the changes are too great to be made clear in writing. It would not be worth while to keep the family thinking of me. I cannot fix precisely the period of my return, though at present it seems to me probable we may make the voyage in May or June. At first we should wish to go and make a little visit to mother. I should take counsel with various friends before fixing myself in any place; see what openings there are for me, &c. I cannot judge at all before I am personally in the United States, and wish to engage myself no way.

Should I finally decide on the neighborhood of New York, I should see you all, often. I wish, however, to live with mother, if possible. We will discuss it on all sides when I come. Climate is one thing I must think of. The change from the Roman winter to that of New England might be very trying for Ossoli. In New York he would see Italians often, hear his native tongue, and feel less exiled. If we had our affairs in New York and lived in the neighboring country, we could find places as quiet as C------, more beautiful, and from which access to a city would be as easy by means of steam.

On the other hand, my family and most cherished friends are in New England. I shall weigh all advantages at the time, and choose as may then seem best.

I feel also the great responsibility about a child, and the mixture of solemn feeling with the joy its sweet ways and caresses give; yet this is only different in degree, not in kind, from what we should feel in other relations. We may more or less impede or brighten the destiny of all with whom we come in contact. Much as the child lies in our power, still G.o.d and Nature are there, furnishing a thousand masters to correct our erroneous, and fill up our imperfect, teachings. I feel impelled to try for good, for the sake of my child, most powerfully; but if I fail, I trust help will be tendered to him from some other quarter. I do not wish to trouble myself more than is inevitable, or lose the simple, innocent pleasure of watching his growth from day to day, by thinking of his future. At present my care of him is to keep him pure, in body and mind, to give for body and mind simple nutriment when he requires it, and to play with him. Now he learns, playing, as we all shall when we enter a higher existence. With him my intercourse thus far has been precious, and if I do not well for _him_, he at least has taught _me_ a great deal.

I may say of Ossoli, it would be difficult to help liking him, so sweet is his disposition, so disinterested without effort, so simply wise his daily conduct, so harmonious his whole nature. And he is a perfectly unconscious character, and never dreams that he does well.

He is studying English, but makes little progress. For a good while you may not be able to talk freely with him, but you will like showing him your favorite haunts,--he is so happy in nature, so sweet in tranquil places.

TO ------.

What a difference it makes to come home to a child! How it fills up all the gaps of life just in the way that is most consoling, most refreshing! Formerly I used to feel sad at that hour; the day had not been n.o.bly spent,--I had not done my duty to myself or others, and I felt so lonely! Now I never feel lonely; for, even if my little boy dies, our souls will remain eternally united. And I feel _infinite_ hope for him,--hope that he will serve G.o.d and man more loyally than I have done; and seeing how full he is of life, how much he can afford to throw away, I feel the inexhaustibleness of nature, and console myself for my own incapacities.

Madame Arconati is near me. We have had some hours of great content together, but in the last weeks her only child has been dangerously ill. I have no other acquaintance except in the American circle, and should not care to make any unless singularly desirable; for I want all my time for the care of my child, for my walks, and visits to objects of art, in which again I can find pleasure, end in the evening for study and writing. Ossoli is forming some taste for books; he is also studying English; he learns of Horace Sumner, to whom he teaches Italian in turn.

TO MR. AND MRS. S.

_Florence_, Feb. 6, 1850.

My Dear M. and R.: You have no doubt ere this received a letter written, I think, in December, but I must suddenly write again to thank you for the New Year's letter. It was a sweet impulse that led you all to write together, and had its full reward in the pleasure you gave! I have said as little as possible about Ossoli and our relation, wishing my old friends to form their own impressions naturally, when they see us together. I have faith that all who ever knew me will feel that I have become somewhat milder, kinder, and more worthy to serve all who need, for my new relations. I have expected that those who have cared for me chiefly for my activity of intellect, would not care for him; but that those in whom the moral nature predominates would gradually learn to love and admire him, and see what a treasure his affection must be to me. But even that would be only gradually; for it is by acts, not by words, that one so simple, true, delicate and retiring, can be known. For me, while some of my friends have thought me exacting, I may say Ossoli has always outgone my expectations in the disinterestedness, the uncompromising bounty, of his every act.

He was the same to his father as to me. His affections are few, but profound, and thoroughly acted out. His permanent affections are few, but his heart is always open to the humble, suffering, heavy-laden.

His mind has little habitual action, except in a simple, natural poetry, that one not very intimate with him would never know anything about. But once opened to a great impulse, as it was to the hope of freeing his country, it rises to the height of the occasion, and stays there. His enthusiasm is quiet, but unsleeping. He is very unlike most Italians, but very unlike most Americans, too. I do not expect all who cared for me to care for him, nor is it of importance to him that they should. He is wholly without vanity. He is too truly the gentleman not to be respected by all persons of refinement. For the rest, if my life is free, and not too much troubled, if he can enjoy his domestic affections, and fulfil his duties in his own way, he will be content.

Can we find this much for ourselves in bustling America the next three or four years? I know not, but think we shall come and try. I wish much to see you all, and exchange the kiss of peace. There will, I trust, be peace within, if not without. I thank you most warmly for your gift. Be a.s.sured it will turn to great profit. I have learned to be a great adept in economy, by looking at my little boy. I cannot bear to spend a cent for fear he may come to want. I understand now how the family-men get so mean, and shall have to begin soon to pray against that danger. My little Nino, as we call him for house and pet name, is in perfect health. I wash, and dress, and sew for him; and think I see a great deal of promise in his little ways, and shall know him better for doing all for him, though it is fatiguing and inconvenient at times. He is very gay and laughing, sometimes violent,--for he is come to the age when he wants everything in his own hands,--but, on the whole, sweet as yet, and very fond of me. He often calls me to kiss him. He says, "kiss," in preference to the Italian word bacio. I do not cherish sanguine visions about him, but try to do my best by him, and enjoy the present moment.

It was a nice account you gave of Miss Bremer. She found some "neighbors" as good as her own. You say she was much pleased by ----; could she know her, she might enrich the world with a portrait as full of little delicate traits as any in her gallery, and of a higher cla.s.s than any in which she has been successful. I would give much that a competent person should paint ----. It is a shame she should die and leave the world no copy.

TO MR. Ca.s.s, CHARGE D'AFFAIRES DES ETATS UNIS D'AMERIQUE.

_Florence, May_ 2, 1850.

Dear Mr. Ca.s.s: I shall most probably leave Florence and Italy the 8th or 10th of this month, and am not willing to depart without saying adieu to yourself. I wanted to write the 30th of April, but a succession of petty interruptions prevented. That was the day I saw you first, and the day the French first a.s.sailed Rome. What a crowded day that was! I had been to visit Ossoli in the morning, in the garden of the Vatican. Just after my return you entered. I then went to the hospital, and there pa.s.sed the eight amid the groans of many suffering and some dying men. What a strange first of May it was, as I walked the streets of Rome by the early sunlight of the nest day! Those were to me grand and impa.s.sioned hours. Deep sorrow followed,--many embarra.s.sments, many pains! Let me once more, at parting, thank you for the sympathy you showed me amid many of these. A thousand years might pa.s.s, and you would find it unforgotten by me.

I leave Italy with profound regret, and with only a vague hope of returning. I could have lived here always, full of bright visions, and expanding in my faculties, had destiny permitted. May you be happy who remain here! It would be well worth while to be happy in Italy!

I had hoped to enjoy some of the last days, but the weather has been steadily bad since you left Florence. Since the 4th of April we have not had a fine day, and all our little plans for visits to favorite spots and beautiful objects, from which we have long been separated, have been marred!

I sail in the barque Elizabeth for New York. She is laden with marble and rags--a very appropriate companionship for wares of Italy! She carries Powers' statue of Calhoun. Adieu! Remember that we look to you to keep up the dignity of our country. Many important occasions are now likely to offer for the American (I wish I could write the Columbian) man to advocate,--more, to _represent_ the cause of Truth and Freedom in the face of their foes. Remember me as their lover, and your friend, M. O.

To ------.

_Florence_, _April_ 16, 1860.

* * * There is a bark at Leghorn, highly spoken of, which sails at the end of this month, and we shall very likely take that. I find it imperatively necessary to go to the United States to make arrangements that may free me from care. Shall I be more fortunate if I go in person? I do not know. I am ill adapted to push my claims and pretensions; but, at least, it will not be such slow work as pa.s.sing from disappointment to disappointment here, where I wait upon the post-office, and must wait two or three months, to know the fate of any proposition.

I go home prepared to expect all that is painful and difficult. It will be a consolation to see my dear mother; and my dear brother E., whom I have not seen for ten years, is coming to New England this summer. On that account I wish to go _this_ year.

_May_ 10.--My head is full of boxes, bundles, phials of medicine, and pots of jelly. I never thought much about a journey for myself, except to try and return all the things, books especially, which I had been borrowing; but about my child I feel anxious lest I should not take what is necessary for his health and comfort on so long a voyage, where omissions are irreparable. The unpropitious, rainy weather delays us now from day to day, as our ship; the Elizabeth,--(look out for news of shipwreck!) cannot finish taking in her cargo till come one or two good days.

I leave Italy with most sad and unsatisfied heart,--hoping, indeed, to return, but fearing that may not be permitted in my "cross-biased"

life, till strength of feeling and keenness of perception be less than during these bygone rich, if troubled, years!

I can say least to those whom I prize most. I am so sad and weary, leaving Italy, that I seem paralyzed.

TO THE SAME.

_Ship Elizabeth, off Gibraltar, June_ 8, 1850.

My Dear M----: You will, I trust, long ere receiving this, have read my letter from Florence, enclosing one to my mother, informing her under what circ.u.mstances I had drawn on you through ----, and mentioning how I wished the bill to be met in case of any accident to me on my homeward course. That course, as respects weather, has been thus far not unpleasant; but the disaster that has befallen us is such as I never dreamed of. I had taken pa.s.sage with Captain Hasty--one who seemed to me one of the best and most high-minded of our American men.

He showed the kindest interest in us. His wife, an excellent woman, was with him. I thought, during the voyage, if safe and my child well, to have as much respite from care and pain as sea-sickness would permit. But scarcely was that enemy in some measure quelled, when the captain fell sick. At first his disease presented the appearance of nervous fever. I was with him a great deal; indeed, whenever I could relieve his wife from a ministry softened by great love and the courage of womanly heroism: The last days were truly terrible with disgusts and fatigues; for he died, we suppose,--no physician has been allowed to come on board to see the body,--of confluent small-pox. I have seen, since we parted, great suffering, but nothing physical to be compared to this, where the once fair and expressive mould of man is thus lost in corruption before life has fled. He died yesterday morning, and was buried in deep water, the American Consul's barge towing out one from this ship which bore the body, about six o'clock.

It was Sunday. A divinely calm, glowing afternoon had succeeded a morning of bleak, cold wind. You cannot think how beautiful the whole thing was:--the decent array and sad reverence of the sailors; the many ships with their banners flying; the stern pillar of Hercules all bathed in roseate vapor; the little white sails diving into the blue depths with that solemn spoil of the good man, so still, when he had been so agonized and gasping as the last sun stooped. Yes, it was beautiful; but how dear a price we pay for the poems of this world! We shall now be in quarantine a week; no person permitted to come on board until it be seen whether disease break out in other cases. I have no good reason to think it will _not_; yet I do not feel afraid. Ossoli has had it; so he is safe. The baby is, of course, subject to injury. In the earlier days, before I suspected small-pox, I carried him twice into the sick-room, at the request of the captain, who was becoming fond of him. He laughed and pointed; he did not discern danger, but only thought it odd to see the old friend there in bed. It is vain by prudence to seek to evade the stern a.s.saults of destiny. I submit. Should all end well, we shall be in New York later than I expected; but keep a look-out. Should we arrive safely, I should like to see a friendly face. Commend me to my dear friends; and, with most affectionate wishes that joy and peace may continue to dwell in your house, adieu, and love as you can,

Your friend, MARGARET.