nde," but
did not trust myself to describe her charms. The day of her appearance
in the school was almost as much a revelation to us boys as the
appearance of Miranda was to Caliban. Her abounding natural curls were
so full of sunshine, her skin was so delicately white, her smile and
her voice were so all-subduing, that half our heads were turned. Her
fascinations were everywhere confessed a few years afterwards; and when
I last met her, though she said she was a grandmother, I questioned
her statement, for her winning looks and ways would still have made her
admired in any company.

Not far from the golden blonde were two small boys, one of them very
small, perhaps the youngest boy in school, both ruddy, sturdy, quiet,
reserved, sticking loyally by each other, the oldest, however, beginning
to enter into social relations with us of somewhat maturer years. One of
these two boys was destined to be widely known, first in literature,
as author of one of the most popular books of its time and which is
freighted for a long voyage; then as an eminent lawyer; a man who, if
his countrymen are wise, will yet be prominent in the national councils.
Richard Henry Dana, Junior, is the name he bore and bears; he found it
famous, and will bequeath it a fresh renown.

Sitting on the girls' benches, conspicuous among the school-girls of
unlettered origin by that look which rarely fails to betray hereditary
and congenital culture, was a young person very nearly of my own age.
She came with the reputation of being "smart," as we should have called
it, clever as we say nowadays. This was Margaret Fuller, the only one
among us who, like "Jean Paul," like "The Duke," like "Bettina,"
has slipped the cable of the more distinctive name to which she was
anchored, and floats on the waves of speech as "Margaret." Her air to
her schoolmates was marked by a certain stateliness and distance, as if
she had other thoughts than theirs and was not of them. She was a
great student and a great reader of what she used to call "naw-vels." I
remember her so well as she appeared at school and later, that I regret
that she had not been faithfully given to canvas or marble in the day
of her best looks. None know her aspect who have not seen her living.
Margaret, as I remember her at school and afterwards, was tall, fair
complexioned, with a watery, aqua-marine lustre in her light eyes,
which she used to make small, as one does who looks at the sunshine.
A rema