cepted invitations to evening parties, and often met, at the somewhat celebrated soirées of Miss Lynch, the assembled authors, artists, critics, wits, and dilettanti of New York. As was inevitable, also, for one of such powerful magnetic influence, liberal soul and broad judgment, she once again became, as elsewhere she had been, a confidant and counsellor of the tempted and troubled; and her geniality, lively conversation, and ever fresh love, gave her a home in many hearts. But the subdued tone of her spirits at this period led her to prefer seclusion.

Of her own social habits she writes: 'It is not well 'to keep entirely apart from the stream of common life; 'so, though I never go out when busy, nor keep late 'hours, I find it pleasanter and better to enter somewhat 'into society. I thus meet with many entertaining ac'quaintance, and some friends. I can never, indeed, 'expect, in America, or in this world, to form relations. 'with nobler persons than I have already known; nor 'can I put my heart into these new ties as into the old 'ones, though probably it would still respond to com'manding excellence. But my present circle satisfies 'my wants. As to what is called "good society," I am 'wholly indifferent. I know several women, whom I 'like very much, and yet more men. I hear good 'music, which answers my social desires better than 'any other intercourse can; and I love four or five inter'esting children, in whom I always find more genuine 'sympathy than in their elders.'

Of the impression produced by Margaret on those whọ were but slightly acquainted with her, some notion may be formed from the following sketch: "In general society, she commanded respect rather than admiration.

All persons were curious to see her, and in full rooms her fine head and spiritual expression at once marked her out from the crowd; but the most were repelled by what seemed conceit, pedantry, and a harsh spirit of criticism, while, on her part, she appeared to regard those around her as frivolous, superficial, and conventional. Indeed, I must frankly confess, that we did not meet in pleasant relations, except now and then, when the lifting of a veil, as it were, revealed for a moment the true life of each. Yet I was fond of looking at her from a distance, and defending her when silly people were inclined to cavil at her want of feminine graces. Then I would say, 'I would like to be an artist now, that I might paint, not the care-worn countenance and the uneasy air of one seemingly out of harmony with the scene about her, but the soul that sometimes looks out from under those large lids. Michel Angelo would have made her a Sibyl.' I remember I was surprised to find her height no greater; for her writings had always given me an impression of magnitude. Thus I studied though I avoided her, admitting, the while, proudly and joyously, that she was a woman to reverence. A trifling incident, however, gave me the key to much in her character, of which, before, I had not dreamed. It was one evening, after a Valentine party, where Frances Osgood, Margaret Fuller, and other literary ladies, had attracted some attention, that, as we were in the dressing-room preparing to go home, I heard Margaret sigh deeply. Surprised and moved, I said, 'Why?'-'Alone, as usual,' was her pathetic answer, followed by a few sweet, womanly remarks, touching as they were beautiful. Often, after, I found myself recalling her look and tone, with tears in

my eyes; for before I had regarded her as a being cold, and abstracted, if not scornful."

-

Cold, abstracted, and scornful! About this very time it was that Margaret wrote in her journal:-'Father, 'let me not injure my fellows during this period of re'pression. I feel that when we meet my tones are not 'so sweet as I would have them. O, let me not wound! 'I, who know so welt how wounds can burn and ache, 'should not inflict them. Let my touch be light and 'gentle. Let me keep myself uninvaded, but let me not 'fail to be kind and tender, when need is. Yet I would 'not assume an overstrained poetic magnanimity. Help 'me to do just right, and no more. O, make truth pro'found and simple in me!' Again:-"The heart bleeds, 'faith almost gives way, to see man's seventy 'years of chrysalis. Is it not too long? Enthusiasm 'must struggle fiercely to burn clear amid these fogs. In 'what little, low, dark cells of care and prejudice, with'out one soaring thought or melodious fancy, do poor 'mortals well-intentioned enough, and with religious 'aspiration too forever creep. And yet the sun sets 'to-day as gloriously bright as ever it did on the temples 'of Athens, and the evening star rises as heavenly pure 'as it rose on the eye of Dante. O, Father! help me to 'free my fellows from the conventional bonds whereby 'their sight is holden. By purity and freedom let me 'teach them justice.' And yet again:-There comes 'a consciousness that I have no real hold on life, 'real, permanent connection with any soul. I seem a 'wandering Intelligence, driven from spot to spot, that I 'may learn all secrets, and fulfil a circle of knowledge. "This thought envelopes me as a cold atmosphere. I

'do not see how I shall go through this destiny. I can, 'if it is mine; but I do not feel that I can.'

Casual observers mistook Margaret's lofty idealism for personal pride; but thus speaks one who really knew her: "You come like one of the great powers of nature, harmonizing with all beauty of the soul or of the earth. You cannot be discordant with anything that is true and deep. I thank God for the noble privilege of being recognized by so large, tender, and radiant a soul as thine.”

EUROPE.

LETTERS

"I go to prove my soul.

I see my way, as birds their trackless way.

In some time, God's good time, I shall arrive;
He guides me and the bird. In his good time!"

BROWNING.

"One, who, if he be called upon to face

Some awful moment, to which Heaven has joined
Great issues, good or bad for human kind,

Is happy as a lover, and attired

With sudden brightness, like a man inspired;
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.'

WORDSWORT!

"Italia! Italia! O tu cui feo la sorte

Dono infelice di bellezza, ond' hai

Funesta dote d' infiniti guai,

Che in fronte scritti per gran doglia porte. Deh, fossi tu men bella, ò almen più forte !"