Whence come you, Hawthorne? By what right do you drink from my flagon
of life? And when I put it to my lips--lo, they are yours and not
mine. I feel that the Godhead is broken up like the bread at the
Supper, and that we are the pieces. Hence this infinite fraternity of
feeling. Now, sympathizing with the paper, my angel turns over
another page. You did not care a penny for the book. But, now and then
as you read, you understood the pervading thought that impelled the
book--and that you praised. Was it not so? You were archangel enough
to despise the imperfect body, and embrace the soul. Once you hugged
the ugly Socrates because you saw the flame in the mouth, and heard
the rushing of the demon,--the familiar,--and recognized the sound;
for you have heard it in your own solitudes.
My dear Hawthorne, the atmospheric skepticisms steal into me now, and
make me doubtful of my sanity in writing you thus. But, believe me, I
am not mad, most noble Festus! But truth is ever incoherent, and when
the big hearts strike together, the concussion is a little stunning.
Farewell. Don't write a word about the book. That would be robbing me
of my miserly delight. I am heartily sorry I ever wrote anything about
you--it was paltry. Lord, when shall we be done growing? As long as we
have anything more to do, we have done nothing. So, now, let us add
Moby Dick to our blessing, and step from that. Leviathan is not the
biggest fish;--I have heard of Krakens.
This is a long letter, but you are not at all bound to answer it.
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