effect.  He ends as he began; as he did in Chartism.  Everything is very bad.  You are fools and hypocrites, or you would make it better.  I cannot but sympathize with him about hero-worship; for I, too, have had my fits of rage at the stupid irreverence of little minds, which also is made a parade of by the pedantic and the worldly.  Yet it is a good sign.  Democracy is the way to the new aristocracy, as irreligion to religion.  By and by, if there are great men, they will not be brilliant exceptions, redeemers, but favorable samples of their kind.

    ’Mr. C.’s tone is no better than before.  He is not loving, nor
    large; but he seems more healthy and gay.

’We have had bad weather here, bitterly cold.  The place is what I expected:  it is too great and beautiful to agitate or surprise:  it satisfies:  it does not excite thought, but fully occupies.  All is calm; even the rapids do not hurry, as we see them in smaller streams.  The sound, the sight, fill the senses and the mind.

’At Buffalo, some ladies called on us, who extremely regretted they could not witness our emotions, on first seeing Niagara.  “Many,” they said, “burst into tears; but with those of most sensibility, the hands become cold as ice, and they would not mind if buckets of cold water were thrown over them!"’

NATURE.

Margaret’s love of beauty made her, of course, a votary of nature, but rather for pleasurable excitement than with a deep poetic feeling.  Her imperfect vision and her bad health were serious impediments to intimacy with woods and rivers.  She had never paid,—­and it is a little remarkable,—­any attention to natural sciences.  She neither botanized, nor geologized, nor dissected.  Still she delighted in short country rambles, in the varieties of landscape, in pastoral country, in mountain outlines, and, above all, in the sea-shore.  At Nantasket Beach, and at Newport, she spent a month or two of many successive summers.  She paid homage to rocks, woods, flowers, rivers, and the moon.  She spent a good deal of time out of doors, sitting, perhaps, with a book in some sheltered recess commanding a landscape.  She watched, by day and by night, the skies and the earth, and believed she knew all their expressions.  She wrote in her journal, or in her correspondence, a series of “moonlights,” in which she seriously attempts to describe the light and scenery of successive nights of the summer moon.  Of course, her raptures must appear sickly and superficial to an observer, who, with equal feeling, had better powers of observation.

Nothing is more rare than a talent to describe landscape, and, especially, skyscape, or cloudscape, although a vast number of letters, from correspondents between the ages of twenty and thirty, are filled with experiments in this kind.  Margaret, in her turn, made many vain attempts, and, to a lover of nature, who knows that every day has new and inimitable lights and shades, one of these descriptions is as vapid as the raptures of a citizen arrived at his first meadow.  Of course, he is charmed, but, of course, he cannot tell what he sees, or what pleases him.  Yet Margaret often speaks with a certain tenderness and beauty of the impressions made upon her.