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severely wounded; but I recovered, and made up my mind to be bright and ugly.
She was all her lifetime the victim of disease and pain.
She read and wrote in bed, and believed that she could understand anything better when she was ill. Pain acted like a girdle, to give tension to her powers.
A lady, who was with her one day during a terrible attack of nervous headache, which made Margaret totally helpless, assured me that Margaret was yet in the finest vein of humor, and kept those who were assisting her in a strange, painful excitement, between laughing and crying, by perpetual brilliant sallies.
There were other peculiarities of habit and power.
When she turned her head on one side, she alleged she had second sight, like
St. Francis.
These traits or predispositions made her a willing listener to all the uncertain science of mesmerism and its goblin brood, which have been rife in recent years.
She had a feeling that she ought to have been a man, and said of herself,
A man's ambition with a woman's heart, is an evil lot.
In some verses which she wrote To the
Moon, occur these lines:—
But if I steadfast gaze upon thy face,
A human secret, like my own, I trace;
For, through the woman's smile looks the male eye.
And she found something of true portraiture in a disagreeable novel of
Balzac's, ‘
Le Livre Mystique,’ in which an equivocal figure exerts alternately a masculine and a feminine influence on the characters of the plot.
Of all this nocturnal element in her nature she was very conscious, and was disposed, of course, to give it
