the
Indian, preach to the trader who ruins him, of the dreadful account
which will be demanded of the followers of Cain. Let every legislator
take the subject to heart, and, if he cannot undo the effects of past
sin, try for that clear view and right sense that may save us from
sinning still more deeply."

Margaret's days in Mackinaw were nine in number. She went thence by
steamer to the Sault Ste. Marie. On the way thither, the steamer being
detained by a fog, its captain took her in a small boat to visit the
island of St. Joseph, and on it, the remains of an old English fort. Her
comments upon this visit, in itself of little interest, are worth
quoting:--

"The captain, though he had been on this trip hundreds of times, had
never seen this spot, and never would but for this fog and his desire to
entertain me. He presented a striking instance how men, for the sake of
getting a living, forget to live. This is a common fault among the
active men, the truly living, who could tell what life is. It should not
be so. Literature should not be left to the mere literati, eloquence to
the mere orator. Every Caesar should be able to write his own Commentary.
We want a more equal, more thorough, more harmonious development, and
there is nothing to hinder the men of this country from it, except
their own supineness or sordid views."

At the Sault, Margaret found many natural beauties, and enjoyed, among
other things, the descent of the rapids in a canoe. Returning to
Mackinaw, she was joined by her friends, and has further chronicled only
her safe return to Buffalo.

The book which preserves the record of this journey saw the light at the
end of the next year's summer. Margaret ends it with a little _Envoi_ to
the reader. But for us, the best _envoi_ will be her own description of
the last days of its composition:--

"Every day I rose and attended to the many little calls which are always
on me, and which have been more of late. Then, about eleven, I would sit
down to write at my window, close to which is the apple-tree, lately
full of blossoms, and now of yellow-birds.

"Opposite me was Del Sarto's Madonna; behind me, Silenus, holding in his
arms the infant Pan. I felt very content with my pen, my daily bouquet,
and my yellow-birds. About five I would go out and walk till dark; then
would arrive my proofs, like crabbed old guardians, coming to tea every
night. So passed each day. The 23d of May, my birthday, about one
o'c