derful modes whereby her fate was shaped by overruling mercy, had chastened her love of personal sway, and her passion for a commanding career; and Margaret could humble herself, — did often humble herself, — with an all-resigning contrition, that was most touching to witness in one naturally so haughty. Of this the following letter to a valued friend gives illustration: —
‘I ought, I know, to have laid aside my own cares
and griefs, been on the alert for intelligence that would
gratify you, and written letters such as would have been
of use and given pleasure to my wise, tender, ever
faithful friend. But no; I first intruded on your happiness
with my sorrowful epistles, and then, because you
did not seem to understand my position, with sullen
petulance I resolved to write no more. Nay, worse; I
tried to harden my heart against you, and felt, “If you
cannot be all, you shall be nothing.”
‘It was a bad omen that I lost the locket you gave me, which I had constantly worn. Had that been daily before my eyes, to remind me of all your worth, — of the generosity with which you, a ripe and wise character, received me to the privileges of equal friendship; of the sincerity with which you reproved and the love with which you pardoned my faults; of how much you taught me, and bore with from me, — it would have softened the flint of my heart, and I should have relaxed from my isolation.
‘How shall I apologize for feelings which I now recognize as having been so cold, so bitter and unjust? I can only say I have suffered greatly, till the tone of my spirits seems destroyed. Since I have been at leisure to realize how very ill I have been, under what
