the “soul’s impulses.”  It is a noble worship; but, if we do not aid it by a just though limited interpretation of what “Ought” means, it will degenerate into idolatry.  For a time it was so with me, and I am not yet good enough to love the Ought.

’Then I came again into the open air, and saw those resplendent orbs moving so silently, and thought that they were perhaps tenanted, not only by beings in whom I can see the germ of a possible angel, but by myriads like this poor creature, in whom that germ is, so far as we can see, blighted entirely, I could not help saying, “O my Father!  Thou, whom we are told art all Power, and also all Love, how canst Thou suffer such even transient specks on the transparence of Thy creation?  These grub-like lives, undignified even by passion,—­these life-long quenchings of the spark divine.—­why dost Thou suffer them?  Is not Thy paternal benevolence impatient till such films be dissipated?”

’Such questionings once had power to move my spirit deeply; now, they but shade my mind for an instant.  I have faith in a glorious explanation, that shall make manifest perfect justice and perfect wisdom.’

LITERATURE.

Cut off from access to the scholars, libraries, lectures, galleries of art, museums of science, antiquities, and historic scenes of Europe, Margaret bent her powers to use such opportunities of culture as she could command in her solitary country-home.  Journals and letters thus bear witness to her zeal:—­

’I am having one of my “intense” times, devouring book after book.  I never stop a minute, except to talk with mother, having laid all little duties on the shelf for a few days.  Among other things, I have twice read through the life of Sir J. Mackintosh; and it has suggested so much to me, that I am very sorry I did not talk it over with you.  It is quite gratifying, after my late chagrin, to find Sir James, with all his metaphysical turn, and ardent desire to penetrate it, puzzling so over the German philosophy, and particularly what I was myself troubled about, at Cambridge,—­Jacobi’s letters to Fichte.

’Few things have ever been written more discriminating or more beautiful than his strictures upon the Hindoo character, his portrait of Fox, and his second letter to Robert Hall, after his recovery from derangement.  Do you remember what he says of the want of brilliancy in Priestley’s moral sentiments?  Those remarks, though slight, seem to me to show the quality of his mind more decidedly than anything in the book.  That so much learning, benevolence, and almost unparalleled fairness of mind, should be in a great measure lost to the world, for want of earnestness of purpose, might impel us to attach to the latter attribute as much importance as does the wise uncle in Wilhelm Meister.’

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