me.’  There was something of hereditary organization in this, and something of unfavorable circumstance in the fact, that she had in early life no companion, and few afterwards, in her finer studies; but there was also an ebullient sense of power, which she felt to be in her, which as yet had found no right channels.  I remember she once said to me, what I heard as a mere statement of fact, and nowise as unbecoming, that ’no man gave such invitation to her mind as to tempt her to a full expression; that she felt a power to enrich her thought with such wealth and variety of embellishment as would, no doubt, be tedious to such as she conversed with.’

Her impatience she expressed as she could.  ‘I feel within myself,’ she said,

    ’an immense force, but I cannot bring it out.  It may sound
    like a joke, but I do feel something corresponding to that
    tale of the Destinies falling in love with Hermes.’

In her journal, in the summer of 1844, she writes:—­

’Mrs. Ware talked with me about education,—­wilful education,—­in which she is trying to get interested.  I talk with a Goethean moderation on this subject, which rather surprises her and ——­, who are nearer the entrance of the studio.  I am really old on this subject.  In near eight years’ experience, I have learned as much as others would in eighty, from my great talent at explanation, tact in the use of means, and immediate and invariable power over the minds of my pupils.  My wish has been, to purify my own conscience, when near them; give clear views of the aims of this life; show them where the magazines of knowledge lie; and leave the rest to themselves and the Spirit, who must teach and help them to self-impulse.  I told Mrs. W. it was much if we did not injure them; if they were passing the time in a way that was not bad, so that good influences have a chance.  Perhaps people in general must expect greater outward results, or they would feel no interest.’

Again: 

    ’With the intellect I always have, always shall, overcome; but
    that is not the half of the work.  The life, the life!  O, my
    God! shall the life never be sweet?’

I have inquired diligently of those who saw her often, and in different companies, concerning her habitual tone, and something like this is the report:—­In conversation, Margaret seldom, except as a special grace, admitted others upon an equal ground with herself.  She was exceedingly tender, when she pleased to be, and most cherishing in her influence; but to elicit this tenderness, it was necessary to submit first to her personally.  When a person was overwhelmed by her, and answered not a word, except, “Margaret, be merciful to me, a sinner,” then her love and tenderness would come like a seraph’s, and often an acknowledgment that she had been too harsh, and even a craving for pardon, with a humility,—­which, perhaps, she had caught from the other.  But her instinct was not humility,—­that was always an afterthought.