burned in its depths. His was a character not to be revealed to himself, or others, except by the important occasions of life. Though every day, no doubt, deepened and enriched him, it brought little that he could show or recall. But when his soul, capable of religion, capable of love, was moved, all his senses were united in the word or action that followed, and the impression made on you was entire. I have scarcely known any capable of such true manliness as he. His poetry, written, or unwritten, was the experience of life. It lies in few lines, as yet, but not one of them will ever need to be effaced.
‘Early that serious eye inspired in me a trust that has never been deceived. There was no magnetism in him, no lights and shades that could stir the imagination; no bright ideal suggested by him stood between the friend and his self. As the years matured that self, I loved him more, and knew him as he knew himself, always in the present moment; he could never occupy my mind in absence.’
Another of her early friends, Rev. F. H. Hedge, has
sketched his acquaintance with her in the following
paper, communicated by him for these memoirs. Somewhat
older than Margaret, and having enjoyed an
education at a German university, his conversation was full
of interest and excitement to her. He opened to her a
whole world of thoughts and speculations which gave
movement to her mind in a congenial direction.
“My acquaintance with Margaret commenced in the
year 1823, at Cambridge, my native place and hers. I
was then a member of Harvard College, in which my
