I knew that his response would be so cordially given that it
would brim over me, and so melodiously that it would echo in my heart
for a great while; yet it would be as brief as the single murmurous
stroke of one from a cathedral tower, half startling by its intensity,
but which attracts the birds, who wing by preference to that lofty
spot. A source of deep enjoyment to my father was a long visit from
his sister, Ebie Hawthorne (he having given her that pretty title
instead of any other abbreviation of Elizabeth). I came to know her
very well in after-years, and was astonished at her magic resemblance
to my father in many ways. I always felt her unmistakable power. She
was chock-full of worldly wisdom, though living in the utmost monastic
retirement, only allowing herself to browse in two wide regions,--the
woods and literature. She knew the latest news from the papers, and
the oldest classics alongside of them. She was potentially, we
thought, rather hazardous, or perverse. But language refuses to
explain her. Her brother seemed not to dream of this, yet no doubt
relished the fact that a nature as unique as any he had drawn sparkled
in his sister. She was a good deal unspiritual in everything; but all
besides in her was fine mind, wisdom, and loving-kindness of a lazy,
artistic sort. That is to say, she was unregenerate, but excellent;
and she fascinated like a wood-creature seldom seen and observant,
refined and untrained. My sister was devoted to her, and says, for
the hundredth time, in a passage among many pages of their
correspondence bequeathed to me:--
My OWN DEAR AUNTIE,--I was made very happy by your letter this week.
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