'Life, is richly worth living, with its continual revelations
of mighty woe, yet infinite hope: and I take it to my breast.
Amid these scenes of beauty, all that is little, foreign,
unworthy, vanishes like a dream. So shall it be some time
amidst the Everlasting Beauty, when true joy shall begin and
never cease.'
Filled thus as Margaret was with ecstasy, she was yet more than
willing,--even glad,--to bear her share in the universal sorrow. Well
she knew that pain must be proportioned to the fineness and fervor of
her organization; that the very keenness of her sensibility exposed
her to constant disappointment or disgust; that no friend, however
faithful, could meet the demands of desires so eager, of sympathies
so absorbing. Contrasted with her radiant visions, how dreary looked
actual existence; how galling was the friction of petty hindrances;
how heavy the yoke of drudging care! Even success seemed failure,
when measured by her conscious aim; and experience had brought out to
consciousness excesses and defects, which humbled pride while shaming
self-confidence. But suffering as she did with all the intensity of so
passionate a nature, Margaret still welcomed the searching discipline.
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