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112 this great throw of Man, when the lesser hazards have ended so successfully. Men disappoint me so, I disappoint myself so, yet courage, patience, shuffle the cards, Durindarte. There was an Epaminondas, a Sidney, — we need the old counters still.

“I wish I were a man, and then there would be one. I weary in this play-ground of boys, proud and happy in their balls and marbles. Give me heroes, poets, lawgivers, Men.

“There are women much less unworthy to live than you, Men; the best are so unripe, the wisest so ignoble, the truest so cold!

“Divine Spirit, I pray thee, grow out into our age before I leave it. I pray, I prophesy, I trust, yet I pine.”

With these strong aspirations, she was not content to do nothing, and she could at least talk. The conversations did not begin with the blowing of a trumpet; there was not even a printed circular, but only a manuscript letter to her friend, Mrs. Ripley, of which the following is a part: —

“, — I feel it more difficult to give on paper a complete outline of my plan for the proposed conversations than I expected. I find so much to say that I cannot make any statement satisfactory to myself, within such limits as would be convenient for your purpose. As no one will wish to take the trouble of reading a long manuscript, I shall rather suggest than tell what I propose to do, and defer a full explanation till the first meeting. The advantages of a weekly meeting for conversation might be great enough to