. . . I do not know Mr.
Hawthorne--and yet I do; and I love him with that eminently Platonic
love which one has for a friend in black and white [print]. He seems
very near to me, for he is not only a dreamer, but wakes now and then
with a pleasant 'Good-morrow' for shabby human interests. I am glad to
hear that he is healthful, for I profoundly admire this quality; and
particularly in one who is not entitled to it on the ground of being
stupid!"
Sophia's aptness for writing poetry led her to inclose this poem to
her future husband in one of her letters:--
God granteth not to man a richer boon
Than tow'rd himself to draw the waiting soul,
Making it swift to pray this high control.
Would with according grace its jars attune.
And man on man the largest gift bestows
When from the vision-mount he sings aloud,
And pours upon the unascended crowd
Pure Order's heavenly stream that o'er him flows.
So thou, my friend, hast risen through thought supreme
To central insight of eternal law.
Thy golden-cadenced intuitions gleam
From that new heaven which John of Patmos saw;
And I my spirit lowly bend to thine,
In recognition of thy words divine.
From Salem she writes to Elizabeth, her summer jaunt being over:--
"I have not touched a pencil since I came home. I cannot be grateful
enough that I can be hands and feet to the dearest mother in the
world, who has all my life been all things to me, so delicate as I
have been.
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