the music of “There shoots the healing plant,” I felt what I would ever feel for suffering souls. Somewhere in nature is the Moly, the Nepenthe, desired from the earliest ages of mankind. No-wonder the music dwelt so exultingly on the passage: —
‘“In native worth and honor clad.”
‘Yes; even so would I ever see man. I will wait, and never despair, through all the dull years.’
‘I am “too fiery.” Even so. Ceres put her foster
child in the fire because she loved him. If they thought
so before, will they not far more now? Yet I wish to
be seen as I am, and would lose all rather than soften
away anything. Let my friends be patient and gentle,
and teach me to be so. I never premised any one
patience or gentleness, for those beautiful traits are not
natural to me; but I would learn them. Can I not?’
‘Of all the books, and men, and women, that have
touched me these weeks past, what has most entered
my soul is the music I have heard, — the masterly
expression from that violin; the triumph of the
orchestra, after the exploits on the piano; Braham, in
this best efforts, when he kept true to the dignity of
art; the Messiah, which has been given on two successive
Sundays, and the last time in a way that deeply
expressed its divine life; but above all, Beethoven’s
seventh symphony. What majesty! what depth!
what tearful sweetness! what victory! This was
truly a fire upon an altar. There are a succession
of soaring passages, near the end of the third move-
