'_Saturday Evening. 25th Nov._, 1843.
'My only friend,
'How shall I thank thee for once more breaking the chains of
my sorrowful slumber? My heart beats. I live again, for I feel
that I am worthy audience for thee, and that my being would be
reason enough for thine.
'Master, my eyes are always clear. I see that the universe is
rich, if I am poor. I see the insignificance of my sorrows. In
my will, I am not a captive; in my intellect, not a slave. Is
it then my fault that the palsy of my affections benumbs my
whole life?
'I know that the curse is but for the time. I know what the
eternal justice promises. But on this one sphere, it is sad.
Thou didst say, thou hadst no friend but thy art. But that one
is enough. I have no art, in which to vent the swell of a soul
as deep as thine, Beethoven, and of a kindred frame. Thou wilt
not think me presumptuous in this saying, as another might.
I have always known that thou wouldst welcome and know me, as
would no other who ever lived upon the earth since its first
creation.
'Thou wouldst forgive me, master, that I have not been true to
my eventual destiny, and therefore have suffered on every side
"the pangs of despised love." Thou didst the same; but thou
didst borrow from those errors the inspiration of thy genius.
Why is it not thus with me? Is it because, as a woman, I
am bound by a physical-law, which prevents the soul from
manifesting itself? Sometimes the moon seems mockingly to say
so,--to say that I, too, shall not shine, unless I can find a
sun. O, cold and barren moon, tell a different tale!
'But thou, oh blessed master! dost answer all my questions,
and make it my privilege to be. Like a humble wife to the
sage, or poet, it is my triumph that I can understand and
cherish thee: like a mistress, I arm thee for the fight: like
a young daughter, I tenderly bind thy wounds. Thou art to me
beyond compare, for thou art all I want. No heavenly sweetness
of saint or martyr, no many-leaved Raphael, no golden
Plato, is anything to me, compared with thee. The infinite
Shakspeare, the stern Angelo, Dante,--bittersweet like
thee,--are no longer seen in thy presence. And, beside these
names, there are none that could vibrate in thy crystal
sphere. Thou hast all of them, and that ample surge of life
besides, that great winged being which they only dreamed of.
There is none greater than Shakspeare; he, too, is a god; but
his creations are successive; thy _fiat_ comprehends them all.
'Last summer, I met thy mood in nature, on those wide
impassioned plains flower and crag-bestrown. There, the tide
of emotion had rolled over, and left the vision of its smiles
and sobs, as I saw to-night from thee.
'If thou wouldst take me wholly to thyself--! I am lost in
this world, where I sometimes meet angels, but of a different
star from mine. Even so does thy spirit plead with all
spirits. But thou dost triumph and bring them all in.
'Master, I have this summer envied the oriole which had even
a swinging nest in the high bough. I have envied the least
flower that came to seed, though that seed were strown to the
wind. But I envy none when I am with thee.'