But how much better to pursue with devotion, like that of Margaret, an imperfect aim, than to worship with lip-service, as most persons do, even though it be in a loftier temple, and before a holier shrine!  With Margaret, the doctrine of self-culture was a devotion to which she sacrificed all earthly hopes and joys,—­everything but manifest duty.  And so her course was “onward, ever onward,” like that of Schiller, to her last hour of life.

  Burned in her cheek with ever deepening fire
  The spirit’s YOUTH, which never passes by;—­
  The COURAGE which, though worlds in hate conspire,
  Conquers, at last, their dull hostility;—­
  The lofty FAITH, which, ever mounting higher,
  Now presses on, now waiteth patiently,—­
  With which the good tends ever to his goal,
  With which day finds, at last, the earnest soul.

But this high idea which governed our friend’s life, brought her into sharp conflicts, which constituted the pathos and tragedy of her existence,—­first with her circumstances, which seemed so inadequate to the needs of her nature,—­afterwards with duties to relatives and friends,—­and, finally, with the law of the Great Spirit, whose will she found it so hard to acquiesce in.

The circumstances in which Margaret lived appeared to her life a prison.  She had no room for utterance, no sphere adequate; her powers were unemployed.  With what eloquence she described this want of a field!  Often have I listened with wonder and admiration, satisfied that she exaggerated the evil, and yet unable to combat her rapid statements.  Could she have seen in how few years a way would open before her, by which she could emerge into an ample field,—­how soon she would find troops of friends, fit society, literary occupation, and the opportunity of studying the great works of art in their own home,—­she would have been spared many a sharp pang.

Margaret, like every really earnest and deep nature, felt the necessity of a religious faith as the foundation of character.  The first notice which I find of her views on this point is contained in the following letter to one of her youthful friends, when only nineteen:—­

* * * * *

’I have hesitated much whether to tell you what you ask about my religion.  You are mistaken!  I have not formed an opinion.  I have determined not to form settled opinions at present.  Loving or feeble natures need a positive religion, a visible refuge, a protection, as much in the passionate season of youth as in those stages nearer to the grave.  But mine is not such.  My pride is superior to any feelings I have yet experienced:  my affection is strong admiration, not the necessity of giving or receiving assistance or sympathy.  When disappointed, I do not ask or wish consolation,—­I wish to know and feel my pain, to investigate its nature and its source; I will not have my thoughts diverted, or my feelings soothed; ’tis therefore that