and that without either rhyme or reason, so soon after leaving the baths of Marstrand, where I last saw you so well. I can now merely endeavour to console myself with the belief, that by this indisposition you will get rid of all further indisposition for the year, and that you therefore will be in all the better health for the winter. Will you not? yes, we must next winter remove with you to some warmer climate, to your beautiful Italy, to Rome, or to Palermo, and next summer you can make good use of sea-bathing again at Marstrand. And I will be with you, my dear heart, and talk and write beautiful things for you, because I shall be rich in such things, and we will inhale a new and beautiful life together. I have not yet received your letter to London, but I shall have it yet, or else E. L. deserves to—lose his head, if he have not already lost it, for he took it upon himself to receive this letter and send it on to me. But yet once more, thanks for the beautiful letters.
I must now tell you about our expedition to the Phalanstery. It was a charming morning when we set out. The air felt quite young—scarcely five years old. It was not a boy, it was a girl, full of animation, but shy; a veiled beauty. The sun was concealed by light clouds, the winds were still. As Marcus, Rebecca, and I, were standing for a short time by the ferry at Brooklyn, waiting for the boat to take us over to New York, a Quakeress was also standing there, with a Roman nose, and a frank but grave countenance. I looked at her, and she looked at me. All at once her countenance brightened as if by a sunbeam. She came up to me, “Thou art Miss Bremer,” said she. “Yes,” said I, “and thou art ——” She mentioned her name, and we shook hands cordially. The inward light had illumined her in more than one way, and on such a morning I felt myself on the sweetly familiar terms of “thee and thou” with the whole world.
We crossed the river, Marcus, Rebecca, and I. The
