me. The weather was enchanting yesterday; it was like a spring-day. I frequently go alone to a tract of land where the road soon ceases, but where the view is extensive over the grassy fields; the ridge of the lofty horizon is clothed with pine-woods, and everywhere, both near and afar off, are seen small clusters of white houses and churches. The grass is now withered and yellow, but when the wind sweeps over it, it bears with it—I know not what extraordinarily agreeable odour, which produces a wonderful effect upon me: memories pleasant and affecting, beloved countenances, glances, voices come to me in it; a thousand feelings, thoughts, presentiments; life becomes too full; the heart overflows, and my eyes swim with tears: how is it?—I feel myself less strong than formerly, and I often have a sensation of fever.—I need rest.—Many also say the same, but not many wish it for me. We shall see, we shall see whether I am able to go to Milton Hill (to the R.'s), and keep Christmas. I wish it, intend it, but——
December 25th. Ah! no, my child. The journey has not taken place. I had already begun to pack my portmanteau, but I could not manage it, and my courage failed. I wrote to say it was impossible (by a young gentleman who was going to the festivity) and thus I passed Christmas-eve quite alone with Maria Lowell. I sewed, and she read aloud to me her husband's new work which had been published the day before. Thus we conversed quietly and inwardly from the open heart and soul—even as we may converse in heaven. All the rest of the family were gone to an entertainment at Boston.
The Christmas-eve of the year before I had spent in Denmark with the beautiful and excellent Queen Caroline Amalia. The year before that with you at Årsta, with Christmas branches, and cheer, and dance, for our country-children, a merry company! then to the Christmas matins
