y, or literary fame,—she had an extraordinary degree; I think more than any person I have known.
An interview with her was a joyful event.
Worthy men and women, who had conversed with her, could not forget her, but worked bravely on in the remembrance that this heroic approver had recognized their aims.
She spoke so earnestly, that the depth of the sentiment prevailed, and not the accidental expression, which might chance to be common.
Thus I learned, the other day, that, in a copy of Mrs. Jameson's Italian Painters, against a passage describing Correggio as a true servant of God in his art, above sordid ambition, devoted to truth, one of those superior beings of whom there are so few; Margaret wrote on the margin,
And yet all might be such. The book lay long on the table of the owner, in Florence, and chanced to be read there by a young artist of much talent.
These words, said he, months afterwards, struck out a new strength in me. They revived resolutions long fallen away, a
e beginnings, but, by the world of men, clothed with a social and cosmical character.
It will be seen, however, that this propensity Margaret held with certain tenets of fate, which always swayed her, and which Goethe, who had found room and fine names for all this in his system, had encouraged; and, I may add, which her own experiences, early and late, seemed strangely to justify.
Some extracts, from her letters to different persons, will show how this matter lay in her mind.
December 17, 1829.—The following instance of beautiful credulity, in Rousseau, has taken my mind greatly.
This remote seeking for the decrees of fate, this feeling of a destiny, casting its shadows from the very morning of thought, is the most beautiful species of idealism in our day. 'T is finely manifested in Wallenstein, where the two common men sum up their superficial observations on the life and doings of Wallenstein, and show that, not until this agitating crisis, have they caught any idea of th