What a lovely trinity of
souls; what a fair star they form, according to Swedenborg's beautiful
idea. I doubt not there is a path of descent, like that of Jacob's
ladder, from their Father's bosom to your heart, and they ascend and
descend, like those angels of his dream.
Dear Mary, just imagine my husband in reality, as faintly shadowed in
his productions. Fresh as a young fountain, with childlike,
transparent emotions; vivid as the flash of a sword in the sun with
sharp wit and penetration; of such an unworn, unworldly observance of
all that is enacted and thought under the sun; as free from prejudice
and party or sectarian bias as the birds, and therefore wise with a
large wisdom that is as impartial as God's winds and sunbeams. His
frolic is like the sport of Milton's "unarmed youth of heaven." But I
will not pretend to describe his intellect; and I have by no means yet
searched it out. I repose in it as upon some elemental force, which
always seems just created, though we cannot tell when it began to be.
Of his beautiful, genial, tender, and great nature I can still less
adequately discourse. His magnanimity, strength, and sweetness
alternately, and together, charm me. He fascinates, wins, and
commands.
We have passed the winter delightfully, reading to each other, and
lately studying German. I knew a little, just enough to empower me to
hold the rod, and be somewhat impertinent, and I have entire
preeminence in the way of pronunciation.
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