refreshment of such lives as T.'s, and V.'s, and W.'s, so
private and so true, where each line written is really the
record of a thought or a feeling. I hate poems which are
a melancholy monument of culture for the sake of being
cultivated, not of growing.'

Even in trifles, one might find with her the advantage and the
electricity of a little honesty. I have had from an eye-witness a note
of a little scene that passed in Boston, at the Academy of Music.
A party had gone early, and taken an excellent place to hear one of
Beethoven's symphonies. Just behind them were soon seated a young lady
and two gentlemen, who made an incessant buzzing, in spite of bitter
looks cast on them by the whole neighborhood, and destroyed all the
musical comfort. After all was over, Margaret leaned across one seat,
and catching the eye of this girl, who was pretty and well-dressed,
said, in her blandest, gentlest voice, "May I speak with you one
moment?" "Certainly," said the young lady, with a fluttered, pleased
look, bending forward. "I only wish to say," said Margaret, "that I
trust, that, in the whole course of your life, you will not suffer so
great a degree of annoyance as you have inflicted on a large party of
lovers of music this evening." This was said with the sweetest air, as
if to a little child, and it was as good as a play to see the change
of countenance which the young lady exhibited, who had no replication
to make to so Christian a blessing.

On graver occasions, the same habit was only more stimulated; and I
cannot remember certain passages which called it into play, without
new regrets at the costly loss which our community sustains in the
loss of this brave and eloquent soul.