sense of delicacy; but I have not mentioned the many proofs I have received of the most charming delicate kindness, which approached merely to give me pleasure, and then withdrew to avoid thanks. This letter belongs to that class.
The weather is now stormy and the sea runs high. I keep quiet in my cabin. I look at the little bouquet of green leaves and splendid everlastings. They speak to me of America and the memories I carry thence. I shall not behold any dear object until I once more see the Swedish coast—and you.
She to whom these words were addressed was never more to meet my gaze. On the threshold of my home I found her grave.
Had she lived, these letters certainly would have remained unpublished. Their contents would have undergone a change before they had been presented to the public, probably for the better. For then I should have had a friend at my side, in whose pure soul I should have seen my faults as in a mirror. As it is, I have been alone, although I have sometimes believed that an angel was near me.
The letter to the distinguished Danish theologian Professor H. Martensen, which now follows, was thought over in America, but was written in Europe. I required quietness and the power of making a general review before writing it. I could not, while in the country, perfectly see the wood for trees, and from the great number of churches could not see the church.
Now, when the forests of the New World murmur in the distance, and the great picture of the New World's cultivation is seen in perspective beyond the agitated sea, am I able, for the first time, to trace the main features with greater clearness and precision. Some of these I have already presented. One of the most essential I have
