'This morning came ----'s letter, announcing Sterling's
death:--
'"Weep for Dedalus all that is fairest."
'The news was very sad: Sterling did so earnestly wish to do
a man's work, and had done so small a portion of his own. This
made me feel how fast my years are flitting by, and nothing
done. Yet these few beautiful days of leisure I cannot resolve
to give at all to work. I want absolute rest, to let the mind
lie fallow, to keep my whole nature open to the influx of
truth.'
At this very time, however, she was longing to write with full freedom
and power. 'Formerly,' she says,
'the pen did not seem to me an instrument capable of
expressing the spirit of a life like mine. An enchanter's
mirror, on which, with a word, could be made to rise all
apparitions of the universe, grouped in new relations; a magic
ring, that could transport the wearer, himself invisible, into
each region of grandeur or beauty; a divining-rod, to tell
where lie the secret fountains of refreshment; a wand, to
invoke elemental spirits;--only such as these seemed fit to
embody one's thought with sufficient swiftness and force. In
earlier years I aspired to wield the sceptre or the lyre; for
I loved with wise design and irresistible command to mould
many to one purpose, and it seemed all that man could desire
to breathe in music and speak in words, the harmonies of the
universe. But the golden lyre was not given to my hand, and I
am but the prophecy of a poet. Let me use, then, the slow pen.
I will make no formal vow to the long-scorned Muse; I assume
no garland; I dare not even dedicate myself as a novice; I
can promise neither patience nor energy:--but I will court
excellence, so far as an humble heart and open eye can merit
it, and, if I may gradually grow to some degree of worthiness
in this mode of expression, I shall be grateful.'