are blossoming, it seems so strange not to blossom too; that the quick thought within cannot remould its tenement. Man is the slowest aloes, and I am such a shabby plant, of such coarse tissue. I hate not to be beautiful, when all around is so.’
Again, after recording a visit to a family, whose taste
and culture, united to the most liberal use of wealth,
made the most agreeable of homes, she writes: ‘Looking
out on the wide view, I felt the blessings of my
comparative freedom. I stand in no false relations.
Who else is so happy? Here are these fair, unknowing
children envying the depth of my mental life. They
feel withdrawn by sweet duties from reality. Spirit! I
accept; teach me to prize and use whatsoever is given
me.’
‘At present,’ she writes elsewhere, ‘it skills not. I am
able to take the superior view of life, and my place in
it. But I know the deep yearnings of the heart and
the bafflings of time will be felt again, and then I shall
long for some dear hand to hold. But I shall never
forget that my curse is nothing, compared with that of
those who have entered into those relations, but not
made them real; who only seem husbands, wives, and
friends.’
‘I remain fixed to be, without churlishness or coldness,
as much alone as possible. It is best for me. I am not
fitted to be loved, and it pains me to have close dealings
with those who do not love, to whom my feelings are
“strange.” Kindness and esteem are very well. I am
willing to receive and bestow them; but these alone are
not worth feelings such as mine. And I wish I may
