’Saturday.  Well, good-by, Brook Farm.  I know more about this place than I did when I came; but the only way to be qualified for a judge of such an experiment would be to become an active, though unimpassioned, associate in trying it.  Some good things are proven, and as for individuals, they are gainers.  Has not ——­ vied, in her deeds of love, with “my Cid,” and the holy Ottilia?  That girl who was so rude to me stood waiting, with a timid air, to bid me good-by.  Truly, the soft answer turneth away wrath.

’I have found myself here in the amusing position of a conservative.  Even so is it with Mr. R. There are too many young people in proportion to the others.  I heard myself saying, with a grave air, “Play out the play, gentles.”  Thus, from generation to generation, rises and falls the wave.’

Again, a year afterward, she writes:—­

’Here I have passed a very pleasant week.  The tone of the society is much sweeter than when I was here a year ago.  There is a pervading spirit of mutual tolerance and gentleness, with great sincerity.  There is no longer a passion for grotesque freaks of liberty, but a disposition, rather, to study and enjoy the liberty of law.  The great development of mind and character observable in several instances, persuades me that this state of things affords a fine studio for the soul-sculptor.  To a casual observer it may seem as if there was not enough of character here to interest, because there are no figures sufficiently distinguished to be worth painting for the crowd; but there is enough of individuality in free play to yield instruction; and one might have, from a few months’ residence here, enough of the human drama to feed thought for a long time.’

Thus much for Margaret’s impressions of Brook Farm and its inmates.  What influence she in turn exerted on those she met there, may be seen from the following affectionate tribute, offered by one of the young girls alluded to in the journal:—­

“Would that I might aid even slightly, in doing justice to the noble-hearted woman whose departure we must all mourn.  But I feel myself wholly powerless to do so; and after I explain what my relation to her was, you will understand how this can be, without holding me indolent or unsympathetic.

“When I first met Miss Fuller, I had already cut from my moorings, and was sailing on the broad sea of experience, conscious that I possessed unusual powers of endurance, and that I should meet with sufficient to test their strength.  She made no offer of guidance, and once or twice, in the succeeding year, alluded to the fact that she ‘had never helped me.’  This was in a particular sense, of course, for she helped all who knew her.  She was interested in my rough history, but could not be intimate, in any just sense, with a soul so unbalanced, so inharmonious as mine then was.  For my part, I reverenced