’What I want, the word I crave, I do not expect to hear from the lips of man.  I do not wish to be, I do not wish to have, a mediator; yet I cannot help wishing, when I am with you, that some tones of the longed-for music could be vibrating in the air around us.  But I will not be impatient again; for, though I am but as I am, I like not to feel the eyes I have loved averted.’

CONVERSATION.

I have separated and distributed as I could some of the parts which blended in the rich composite energy which Margaret exerted during the ten years over which my occasional interviews with her were scattered.  It remains to say, that all these powers and accomplishments found their best and only adequate channel in her conversation;—­a conversation which those who have heard it, unanimously, as far as I know, pronounced to be, in elegance, in range, in flexibility, and adroit transition, in depth, in cordiality, and in moral aim, altogether admirable; surprising and cheerful as a poem, and communicating its own civility and elevation like a charm to all hearers.  She was here, among our anxious citizens, and frivolous fashionists, as if sent to refine and polish her countrymen, and announce a better day.  She poured a stream of amber over the endless store of private anecdotes, of bosom histories, which her wonderful persuasion drew forth, and transfigured them into fine fables.  Whilst she embellished the moment, her conversation had the merit of being solid and true.  She put her whole character into it, and had the power to inspire.  The companion was made a thinker, and went away quite other than he came.  The circle of friends who sat with her were not allowed to remain spectators or players, but she converted them into heroes, if she could.  The muse woke the muses, and the day grew bright and eventful.  Of course, there must be, in a person of such sincerity, much variety of aspect, according to the character of her company.  Only, in Margaret’s case, there is almost an agreement in the testimony to an invariable power over the minds of all.  I conversed lately with a gentleman who has vivid remembrances of his interviews with her in Boston, many years ago, who described her in these terms:—­“No one ever came so near.  Her mood applied itself to the mood of her companion, point to point, in the most limber, sinuous, vital way, and drew out the most extraordinary narratives; yet she had a light sort of laugh, when all was said, as if she thought she could live over that revelation.  And this sufficient sympathy she had for all persons indifferently,—­for lovers, for artists, and beautiful maids, and ambitious young statesmen, and for old aunts, and coach-travellers.  Ah! she applied herself to the mood of her companion, as the sponge applies itself to water.”  The description tallies well enough with my observation.  I remember she found, one day, at my house, her old