LETTER XIII.
WORTHY to MYRA.
A PEACEFUL, recluse life, is
suited to my temper—there is something in
the soft breath of Nature—in the delicacy of
smiling meadows and cultivated fields—in
the sublimity of an aged wood—of broken
rocks—of rivers pouring along their lucid
waves, to which the heart always gives a
ready reception—there is something within
us congenial to these scenes; they impress
the mind with ideas similar to what we feel
in beholding one whom we tenderly esteem.
I WAS making this observation to Mrs.
Holmes, and she told me I was in love—
“These are the very scenes,” said she,
“which your beloved Myra used to praise
and admire, and for which you, by a secret
sympathy, entertain the same predilection.
The piece of embroidery which she worked
at an early age, and which ornaments the
Temple, I have seen you gaze upon several
times—you seem to trace perfection in every
part of it, because it was executed by the
hand of
Myra.”
I ACKNOWLEDGE I have often gazed
upon it (as Mrs. Holmes terms it) but did
not recollect it to be a piece of your work.
I stole an opportunity to revisit it by myself,
and I instantly remembered it—I remembered
when you finished it, and all the happy,
inoffensive scenes of our childhood, returned
fresh upon my heart.
IT is the work of Myra, said I to myself
—Did not her fingers trace these beautiful,
expanding flowers?—Did not she give to
this carnation its animated glow, and to this
opening rose its languishing grace? Removed
as I am—continued I in a certain interiour
language that every son of nature possesses—Removed
as I am, from the amiable
object of my tenderest affection, I have nothing
to do but to admire this offspring of industry
and art—It shall yield more fragrance
to my soul than all the
boquets in the
universe.
I DID not care to pursue the thought—it
touched a delicate string—at first, however,
I flattered myself I should gain some confolation—but
I lost in every reflection.
I CONSIDERED the work as coming from
your hand, and was delighted the more with
it. A piece of steel that has been rubbed
with a loadstone, retains the power of attracting
small bodies of iron: So the beauties
of this embroidery, springing from your
hands, continue to draw my attention, and
fill the mind with ideas of the artist.
Farewel!
